


The Groomsman

by 27dragons, tisfan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, False Accusations, Lord Bucky Barnes, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Pining, Pirates, Prison, Pugilism, Rags to Riches, Running Away, Servant Tony Stark, Sex, anvil weddings, deportation, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes, heir to the Earl of Brooklyn, has everything a young man could want: money, comfort, dreams of love. He is expected to marry well, and carry on the traditions of the earldom. But all that money and comfort is nothing compared to the fiery passion he has for a lowly stable boy. In a moment of passion, Bucky decides to risk it all, run off to Gretna Greene and be with the only man he’s ever loved. But their love is forbidden, and the Earl does not approve.Tony Stark has never had anything, except the love of the heir to the Earldom. He attempts to be cautious, but love and hope drive him forward. Caught by the Earl’s men while attempting to elope, Tony is arrested. He hopes Bucky will come to defend him, but he waits in vain, and instead is sentences to transportation. How could Bucky abandon him in his moment of direst need?Years later, now a wealthy man, Tony Stark returns to England to claim his future. But when Fate throws him once again into Bucky’s arms, will he be able to forgive, or will it be yet another tragedy that he cannot forget?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, various background and temporary relationships
Comments: 546
Kudos: 619





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feignedsobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feignedsobriquet/gifts).



> This story is _absolutely_ the fault of [feignedsobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feignedsobriquet/pseuds/feignedsobriquet), who drew some gorgeous art that made us desperate to write something for it.

It was well past midnight when James Buchanan Barnes, heir to the Earl of Brooklyn, was finally allowed to climb the stairs and head to bed. His mother had insisted he accompany her to the theater, and then stayed, speaking with the mothers of several eligibles -- ostensibly, giving them all the chance to flirt with Bucky -- until the very last carriage had taken them away.

The Earl of Brooklyn was an early riser and often went riding just after dawn. It would be ridiculous to expect the stableboys to still be awake, but just in case, Bucky lit a taper and set it in the east window, next to the courtyard balcony door. He waved off his valet’s offer of assistance and sent the man off to bed. Bucky’d give the man palpitations the next morning as he tended to strew his clothes all over without a care for wrinkles, but that was a problem for Tomorrow Bucky, who would have to deal with Mother’s fussing at him for upsetting the staff.

He’d barely gotten his shirt unbuttoned when there was a scraping sound from outside, followed by a soft tap on the balcony door.

“Tony,” Bucky said, opening the door, because it was Tony, it was always Tony. Someday, Bucky swore, he was going to die, opening his window to a man with a knife, but at the moment, it was just the stableboy. Not that there was anything ordinary about Tony-- brilliant, beautiful, brave. “Miss me?”

“Always, your lordship,” Tony said, stepping through the door and into Bucky’s arms. “How was the play?”

“It would have been better if Mother hadn’t talked through the entire thing,” Bucky complained. “Like I care who did up Lady Carol’s dress-- really. And I’m no lordship to you, never have been. Never will be.” 

There were times when Bucky would have _liked_ to have been Tony’s lord; in the same way that he would have liked Tony to be able to walk through the door like he belonged there, instead of creeping through the window like a thief. But they both knew that wasn’t in the cards.

Tony smiled, a little sadly. “Someday, you know...” He shook his head and tipped his face up, wordlessly asking for a kiss.

Bucky threaded his fingers into Tony’s hair, cupping the back of his neck, bringing him in for the promised kiss. “Wish you could have gone with me,” Bucky said. “They did the cleverest thing with the stage and I would have liked you to explain it to me.” He would try, of course, to describe it to Tony, how the entire floor of the stage had tipped and tossed, emulating the ocean’s perilous journey during _The Tempest_ , to little avail. It would have been almost worth the scandal to bring Tony up to the Brooklyn box and watch as he admired the effect. “Maybe I’ll gather up some of my old clothes and stand in the yard while you sit on my shoulders and watch.”

Tony laughed. “We’d be run off by the constable before we saw any of it. Maybe they’ll do a show for the common folk at the end, and I’ll trade my afternoon off to go and see it.”

“It’s barely fair at all,” Bucky muttered. Some of his peers had been there, with their merry widows and fancy companions. But Tony was the son of a commoner, not even merchant class, but servant. There wasn’t enough money in existence to make people forget that; he’d never be accepted, even if Bucky gave him money and fine clothes, a house in town. 

This was all they could have. And of course, Bucky, having just been to see a comedy play in which love and light won at the end, was melancholy because of it.

Either that, or the endless matchmaking his mother was involved in. 

“Come sit with me and take my mind off things,” Bucky implored, bringing Tony further into his bedroom, to the small sofa where they could barely sit without touching each other, knees bumping.

Tony obliged, letting Bucky keep hold of his hand. “What would your mind prefer to be on?” he wondered, half-smiling. “The repairs needed in the carriage house? The mare that’s due to foal soon? Scandals amongst the service?”

“Are there scandals?” Bucky wondered. “The silver maid sneaking out with one of the footmen?”

Tony rounded his eyes in mock-surprise. “How should I know? Housemaids don’t come out to the stables, after all. Now, the gardener’s daughter, that’s a scandal waiting to happen.”

“A tempting little minx, is she?” Bucky didn’t quite scowl. It wasn’t fair of him to be jealous of the rest of the help, their domestic lives, the people that Tony could openly be friends with. They’d been allowed to play together as children, but the duties of his station took him away from the stables, and the Earl didn’t particularly approve of a grubby stablehand with aspirations of foundry work as a fit companion for his son.

“Well, not to _me_ ,” Tony said, eyes shining with mirth, as if he could read Bucky’s thoughts. “I’ve someone much prettier to keep in my thoughts.”

Bucky twisted a lock of Tony’s hair around his finger. It was getting a little fluffy; he’d probably been evading the housekeeper; she had an obsession with keeping the staff’s hair short and tidy. “Maybe I’ll convince Father to let me go to America for a year or two-- I hear they’re quite a bit less formal about relationships there. Would that be nice? Just a few years, to really be ourselves?”

Tony’s hand covered Bucky’s, tipping his head to kiss Bucky’s palm. “It would,” he allowed, “but all the more painful to return at the end of it. Might be worth it, though. If my heart’ll be broken anyway, it’d be nice to have some good memories.”

“There’s-- I’m not going to break your heart, Tony,” Bucky said, even though he knew it was a lie. No matter what he promised, no matter what he wanted… there was no way. He was expected to marry, to take up the Earldom. To leave his childhood and his lover behind. To leave everything he wanted and cared for aside, to embrace cold duty and try to find some satisfaction there. “We could run off together. You and me.”

Tony scoffed. “It’s a nice fantasy, anyway.”

“It’s not, you know,” Bucky said, arguing because that’s what he did; whenever Tony laughed at him, he had to argue why he was _right_. It was stupid and hard-headed, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “We could go to Gretna Green. Once it’s done-- it’s done.” Some people -- the King, for instance -- could petition for a divorce, but the Earl of Brooklyn wasn’t one of them.

Tony leaned back to stare at Bucky in the dim light of the candle. “We could-- Are you _serious?_ You don’t want to do that,” he said. “Not really. The Earl would never forgive you.”

“When have I ever been in the Earl’s good graces?” Bucky asked. He rarely even called the Earl anything other than the Earl. As if there weren’t any others, and certainly not like he was Bucky’s father. “He could hardly scream louder than he did over the Eton Incident.” Not that Bucky was particularly proud of being expelled from school, although he did think the headmaster had been _completely_ unreasonable.

“Sweetheart...” Tony turned to face Bucky directly, grasping Bucky’s hand in both his own. “He wouldn’t just scream. He could-- If you married me, he could disinherit you. We’d be penniless and disgraced.”

“I know,” Bucky said. His eyes were burning with tears that he couldn’t shed -- wouldn’t distress Tony so much by letting them go. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You deserve better. You deserve to be right here, by my side, with everything I have to offer.” 

Tony smiled sadly, leaned in to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “We both know that can never happen,” he said. “You deserve a good life, love. So much more than I could give you.”

“I never knew I was blind until I saw you,” Bucky said. “And I didn’t know how much I needed, until I needed you. The rest of this-- it’s just a distraction. A complication. You’re the only real thing in my life.”

Tony searched his face. “You... You really mean it,” he whispered. “You’d give everything up? For me?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Bucky wondered. He knew he was spoiled and used to having his own way. There was little the Earl’s money couldn’t buy for him, and what things that he couldn’t just buy, someone would often give him, for a chance to have that influence later. 

Tony might well have been the only thing he couldn’t just _have_. Something he’d had to work on, patiently. 

Getting Tony to trust him at all had been very difficult. Not to play, or make sport, but to trust that Bucky cared about him. Wasn’t just toying or fooling around.

And maybe Tony had been right, all those years ago. Maybe Bucky shouldn’t have gotten involved, because -- well, the idea of being without Tony made Bucky’s heart hurt and his chest ache. It was like trying to imagine living without light or heat or food or water. Tony was _necessary_ to him.

He couldn’t give it up.

He wouldn’t.

“I... It’s a lot to give up,” Tony said, glancing around the room, at its posh furnishings and expensive knicknacks. “I know... I know you care. But I always thought someday -- someday soon, now -- that you’d have to. Move on. Set me aside and marry someone of the peerage.” His hands twisted together uncertainly. “I’ve been trying to accept it with grace. The Season begins in a few weeks.”

“It’s what my parents want for me,” Bucky said. “But they don’t even care what I want for myself. It’s all about the legacy. About the earldom. It’s never -- not truly -- Bucky Barnes they care about. Just _James_.” He ran his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip until he coaxed out a smile. “I know you have to get up early, so I’ll not tire you with my complaints. Among other things. But will you lay down with me for a while? Just so I can hold you.”

“Always,” Tony promised. “Whatever you want.” He stood up and caught Bucky’s hand, tugging Bucky along with him as he backed toward the bed.

The first time Bucky laid down with Tony in a bed -- they’d been messing around in the barn for even longer, but a bed -- he’d almost swooned, just watching how much Tony had enjoyed the down mattress, the soft sheets, thick blankets. _Pillows_. Bucky had added four or five pillows to his bed, just because Tony seemed to enjoy them so much.

Now-- well, Tony still sighed in satisfaction when he laid down, curled against Bucky’s side.

There had to be a way. “Maybe I’ll find a young widow or something. Someone who has her own stableboy and just needs a house and money to look respectable. We could have something. We should have something. It seems vastly unfair to love someone as much as I love you, and not be able to _have it_.”

Tony chuckled a little as he nestled his head in the hollow of Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m sure that would make for an entertaining interview.”

“It will be well,” Bucky promised. “You’ll see. I’ll figure something out. Some way we can be together. Always.”

* * *

Tony closed his eyes and tried not to think about Bucky’s reckless promises.

He hadn’t meant them, not truly. Bucky was tired and frustrated, and maybe a little worried about how he’d be received when the earl took the family into town for the Season. But he’d remember soon enough that he had responsibilities. That sleeping in a featherbed was far superior to a straw tick. That however much he loved Tony, Tony was still only a stableboy.

Best to forget those suggestions and focus on enjoying what he could, here and now. “We should arrange for me to perform a great service for the king,” he murmured, smiling. “Or at least a duke. And then they’ll have no choice but to knight me.”

“ _Sir_ Anthony,” Bucky murmured. “Get a little sleep. I’ll rouse you in an hour. Love you, so much.”

But Tony knew Bucky pretty well, and Bucky didn’t sleep. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking so hard it was a wonder smoke didn’t pour out of his ears, like one of those great industrial machines. Of course, Bucky could afford sleeplessness. The gentry weren’t expected to be at their posts at dawn. He could stay awake til dawn, get Tony back down to the barn, and then go back to bed for several hours.

“Love you, darling,” Tony said, the words only slightly mangled by the yawn threatening to split his skull. He’d been up since before dawn. Should have gone to bed hours ago, really, except he’d been hoping to see the candle in Bucky’s window. “Don’t let me sleep too long.”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, and it seemed Tony had barely closed his eyes before Bucky was touching his cheek. “Wake, my darling. It’s half five.”

“Already?” Tony whined a little, but he sat up without complaint. He’d have to sneak back down to his own bed quickly in order to avoid being seen.

“Also, I have an idea,” Bucky added, his voice sounding revoltingly cheerful for this early in the morning.

“An idea? About what?” Tony slid off the bed with a sigh and began brushing out his rumpled clothes.

“About how we could have everything,” Bucky said. “Listen-- you said something about knighthood, which reminded me. My uncle Freddie, Sir Frederick? He left me some inheritance when he passed on. It’s not a lot. Some jewels, monogrammed tea service, that sort of thing. I bet that stuff would sell for a couple hundred pounds, _at least_. Probably more. The emerald ring’s probably worth two thousand. We won’t get that, selling, but-- it’d be a _start_ , Tony. We could buy a little cottage somewhere.”

Tony stared at Bucky. The whole time Tony had been sleeping, Bucky had been thinking about this? About how they could... how they could be together, elope to Gretna Green and be _together_ and not starve to death. “You... really _really_ mean it,” he breathed. “It’s... It would still be a lot of work,” he warned. Not that he thought Bucky was incapable of hard work, but it wouldn’t be anything like what Bucky was used to.

“Of course,” Bucky said, blithely. “We could do it, we could make it work. Maybe we could even go to America, try and start over. Land of opportunity.”

Tony tapped his fingers against his chest. “It might...” He glanced around again and nearly yelped when he saw the sky beginning to pale. “I want to,” he said quickly, tugging Bucky to him for a kiss. “I do. But let me think about it. I’ll. I’ll tell you tonight.”

“All right,” Bucky said. “I’ll… put together a satchel. And talk to some of my friends who get in thick at the gaming tables. They’ll know who I can sell to, safely.”

“God, I love you,” Tony sighed. He kissed Bucky again, fiercely, and then ducked out onto the balcony before he could be tempted to linger even longer.

He scanned the grounds, but no one was out yet. He grabbed onto the vines trailing up the wall next to the balcony and swung over the railing, shimmying down and darting for his quarters. Almost time to be up and about feeding the horses; he’d barely have time to switch shirts and splash his face before he needed to be in the stableyard.

Bucky came down twice during the day, once just after luncheon with some bread and sliced meats for the stablehands, which wasn’t unusual, except that he also slipped Tony a wallet thick with pound notes. “Hide that, it’s my pocket money, these last few months.”

A quick shuffle through it, as Tony was tucking it under his straw mattress, showed at least three hundred pounds-- more than any stableboy would see in a _lifetime_. Pocket money. And Tony knew for a fact that Bucky’s clothing expenses often exceeded his pocket money, just from hearing Bucky complain about it.

And he was proposing that they start a life together on less.

It was going to be so, so difficult for Bucky to adjust. Tony prayed he wouldn’t regret the decision.

But Tony couldn’t quite imagine life without Bucky. They’d been children together and grown into so much more. Possibly, for Bucky’s own good, Tony should turn him down, turn him away. But he couldn’t. He was going to say yes, and Bucky knew it. Tony had never been able to deny Bucky anything.

“I’m going to go out to the club tonight,” he told Tony. “I’ll be wanting my horse saddled and ready. And a spare. Lord Barton’s in town and you know how he is about forgetting where he left his mount.”

He gave Tony a wink. “I’ll see you this evening. And we’ll make the rest of our plans.”

Tony smiled helplessly. “Yes, your Lordship. I’ll have them ready for you.”

The day passed -- Tony would have liked to have said it crawled, would have thought that, on that day of all days, he could spend an eternity between each toll of the church bell. Like in one of those spicy books that the milkmaids sometimes read from while they churned butter or set the cheesewheels. But it didn’t. 

There was always something to do. Horses that needed saddled for the house or even for some of the footmen to go into town. The carriage needed cleaned and the wheels wiped down. The Earl had come home unexpectedly and as usual, his horse was in a lather and needed to be cooled and brushed. 

And throughout the day, those few servants who knew about Bucky and Tony’s arrangement -- there were always a few who knew -- came down to the stable, usually carrying something small and sellable, wrapped in leather or canvas. Harley, the page, brought a satchel of fine, expensive books from the library, with gilt pages and easily worth ten pounds each. And later, he brought a sack of Bucky’s clothes, his extra boots, and a good, warm coat for each of them. 

Tony tucked everything into saddlebags and hid them as best he could in the hay. Taking the horses and tack might be considered theft, but Tony thought once they were married, once it was too late to undo, they could send the animals back. There’d be no need to run any more, at that point.

Harley smirked the whole time, but acted as though everything was perfectly normal. _Of course_ the young master would take his books and his coat with him, even though it was a fine summer evening.

Toward evening, Bucky came out, dressed in his finest. “I’m going out to my club,” he said. “I’ll have the names I need, and I’ve told Mother that I’m out for a night with my friends. They won’t expect me home until very late indeed, if at all. I dropped the hint that I might stay the evening with Lord Rumlow. Mother’s been shoving me in the direction of his sister for some time, so she’s not the slightest bit cross. I’ll have one of the boys at the club take the horses out to the kissing bridge. Meet me there, just before ten. I’ll take a hired carriage, so no one can follow us. It’s like an adventure!”

And then Bucky paused, clutching Tony’s hand tight. “Say you will, of course. You will marry me, won’t you, Tony?”

Tony squeezed Bucky’s hand in return. “Of course I will,” he said, smiling fondly. “You know I could never say no to you.”

“It will all be fine,” Bucky said. “Poets and playwrights have been saying so for generations. Where two people love, there will be joy.” He gave Tony a quick kiss, and took his horse. “I count the minutes until ten.”

“Me too,” Tony said, then raised his voice a little. “Best of luck at the tables, Your Lordship.”

He watched Bucky ride away, his heart beating fast in his throat. They were. They were really going to do this.

Harley slipped out of the shadows. “You know, you’re going to need help,” he said. “With your new home, your new life. He won’t-- he’s a good man, but he’s a layabout. You’re going to need someone there who knows the right end of a candle and how to empty a chamber pot.”

“Scamp,” Tony said. “Being a page is so tedious you want to give it up for more work and less pay?”

“It will be an _adventure_ ,” Harley echoed Bucky, rolling his eyes. “Besides, out in the country, you’ll have more freedom. I don’t think it will take you very long before you’re fixing all the farmer’s machines and tools for money, instead of because his lordship tells you to do it. I’m just getting in on a good thing early.”

Tony huffed, but ruffled the boy’s hair. “If Bucky agrees, then fine. You’ll have to ride double with me.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Harley said. “So, I can come? Lord Barnes won’t say no, he never says no, you two are made for each other in your inability to say no to each other.”

“Brat,” Tony said, but he didn’t really mean it. “Keep your mouth shut. We’ll leave as soon as dinner is done.”


	2. Chapter 2

The horses were a dark blob against the inky blackness of the water, but Tony knew they’d been seen when Bucky’s mare lifted her head and whickered a greeting. She would know Tony; he’d been feeding her almost every day for the last two years, since Bucky bought her. The other lipped at the grass and acted completely unconcerned. That meant they felt safe out there, which was good. Tony hadn’t been able to keep from worrying. Horses were creatures of habit, and being left alone by the bridge to await a secret rendezvous seemed the sort of thing that could get them both upset.

“Hey there, lady,” Tony said softly as they approached. No sense spooking them. He crossed the ground and caught up the mare’s lead. “Wait’s almost over.” He glanced around. No Bucky, not yet.

Harley dropped the other bags onto the ground with a huff. Given his position as a page, he wasn’t used to walking the streets at night and he’d been lagging behind the whole time. “When we go-- where are we going?”

“Gretna Green, first,” Tony said. “Then, I’m not sure. America, maybe.”

“Oh, you’re going somewhere,” a deep, soft voice said. “But I doubt it’s America. Australia, more like. I hear that’s where they’re transporting thieves, these days.”

Tony spun around. “Who--” His breath froze in his lungs. “Lord Barnes.” And behind the Earl, the constable. _Hell_. He swallowed hard. “We’re not stealing anything.”

“More like, not getting away with it,” Barnes said. “Ridiculous scheme of yours. You should be grateful I’m having you transported. I could have you hanged.”

Harley squeaked in dismay and moved behind Tony, his hand reaching for Tony’s fingers.

“Two horses, an’ valuables, like you said, guv,” the constable said. “Won’t take much time, just your word at the trial. There’s a boat to Van Dieman’s Land set for sail in three days.”

“No,” Tony protested desperate. “We weren’t-- Ask Bucky! He’ll tell you!”

“Yes, I’ll be _quite_ interested in hearing what James has to say about this,” the Earl said. “Truth will out, of course. Constable, if you would, please, a few days in the Tower should put them in a more confessional mood. And the other arrangements, do send word, I’ll attend the trial.”

The constable nodded to his men, and Tony found himself on his knees, hands chained behind his back, practically shoved onto the cobblestones, Harley beside him. 

“You cost me a good page,” the Earl said, “which I did not expect. You want the boy so bad, take him with you to Van Dieman’s.” And then the earl drew back his leg and kicked Tony in the stomach, knocking him over and crushing all the air from his chest.

“Tony!”

Tony gagged and coughed weakly, trying to draw breath. He struggled to sit up again, but with his hands bound, he couldn’t get his balance. “‘S’okay, Harls,” he croaked. He managed to roll onto his side and draw a couple of gasping breaths. “It’ll be okay.”

When Bucky found out what had happened, he would explain. He would tell his father and the constable, would come to the trial and see them freed. And then... Best not to try to think too far ahead. They’d manage. Somehow. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

The journey from the kissing bridge and to the Old Bailey was uncomfortable. Tony’s arms were left chained and each bump and dip of the wagon sent him sprawling until Harley helped him brace in a corner. Even then, breathing hurt. He was fairly certain the Earl had cracked one of his ribs.

The guards, at least, took little interest in them, once they were in place, talking instead with each other about their mistresses and a street play one of them had seen recently. 

“Common thieves,” the warden was told as Tony and Harley were shoved out of the wagon and into a dirty yard.

Newgate was a terrible place; even if Tony was told, it had been improved since it opened. It stank; prisoners were not washed with any regularity and waste built up in ill-maintained sewer systems. There were few lights, and hundreds of prisoners.

“The boy should--”

“‘is lordship said the boy stays with this ‘un,” the constable said. “Aid and abettin’. His apprentice, most like. Tried to make off with two ‘orses and some right swell jewelry.”

“We’ll take care of it, then. Wish his lordship every blessing,” the warden said. “Take them to the Stone Hall.”

The Stone Hall, for debtors and common criminals, was a long room open to one side for the exercise yard. There were dingy cots with no or few blankets. Some of the prisoners still wore their handcuffs, and some were leg-shackled. A few were held to the wall near their beds, punishment for this or that infraction. 

Tony and Harley were prodded all the way down where they were given each a uniform and told their livery was the property of the Earl and had to be returned. The jail-clothing was rough, scratchy, and grey with stripes. Distinctive. Each came with a small, ugly hat but no shoes.

Tony’s boots were his own -- ostensibly a gift from Bucky a few years back, but they did belong to him, and not the Earl.

He tried to argue the point, and got boxed on the ears for his troubles. Dizzy and pained, ears ringing, Harley had to help him strip down to his smallclothes and put on the prison uniform. At least they took the chains off.

A few days, he told himself, only a few days, and Bucky would come to the trial and win him free. He didn’t want to think about what would happen after that, but they’d find a way, surely. _Where two people love, there will be joy_. Bucky had said that to him -- was it only a few hours ago? It seems like days.

They couldn’t even find beds in a corner where they could be safe or sheltered from the weather, but instead were at the worst part of the hall, nearest the open, drafty exit to the prison yard. At least it was still summer, and not cold. People died; gaol fever, Tony had heard it called, just from exposure to the elements and bad food.

“I’m scared,” Harley admitted, when the noise and stink got worse -- dinner time, and all the prisoners crowded into the hall, their battered bowls in hand. 

So was Tony, but he couldn’t let Harley see that. “We won’t be here long,” he promised. “When we go to trial, Bucky will come and tell the truth. It will be fine. We just have to wait.”

Harley nodded. “We’ll wait. His lordship will come and get us. We’ll be fine.” He looked down at the two tin bowls they’d been given. “You want me to get us-- dinner?” He sounded dubious, as if dinner was not a word that should be used to describe the food at the prison.

“No, we should stay together.” Tony didn’t like the look of some of the rougher prisoners. He wouldn’t leave Harley unprotected. He struggled to his feet -- yeah, definitely a cracked rib -- and tried to stand up straight as they joined the crowd.

“Here,” Harley said, squeezing under him. “I’ll help you. But don’t _talk_ to people, you know you’ll jus’ get us in trouble, and I’m not big enough to get us both out of it.”

“I’m not going to--” Harley shot him an unimpressed look, and Tony had to admit that, at least in this situation, it was probably safer to keep his mouth shut. “Okay, okay.” He let Harley take some of his weight as they limped forward.

Food… well, it might have been grain, at one time, with some fatty bits of meat in it, all in a thick, jelly-like glop. It did not look appetizing, in the least, but the way some of the prisoners were scarfing it down, and then eyeing other prisoners’ meals, it might as well have been ambrosia.

Hunger was the best sauce, the old butler had once said, but Tony wasn’t sure how hungry he was going to have to be before he could do more than choke down a few mouthfuls, especially with his rib hurting as bad as it did.

He gave up when he started actively gagging at the feel of the fat sliding down his throat, and gave the rest to one of the hungrier-looking prisoners. He could be hungry for a few days. He limped back over to the narrow cots they’d claimed and eased himself down.

“His lordship will come for you,” Harley said. “He will. He has to!”

Bucky-- 

Didn’t come.

He didn’t visit, even though the Stone Hall was allowed to have visitors. Even some nobles stopped in, among the other wives and daughters, mothers and fathers. Friends, and neighbors. People brought food and alms for their loved ones, paid for better accommodations, or small comforts when they could. 

But Bucky didn’t come.

“The... The earl probably forbade him to come,” he told Harley on the second day. “I’m sure he’s furious with Bucky for consorting with a commoner. But he’ll... he’ll _have_ to come to the trial.”

But two days later, they were put back into chains and taken to the courthouse, and though Tony nearly twisted his head right off his shoulders trying to look around, Bucky... wasn’t there.

The earl was there, managing to look both smug and offended. But no Bucky.

Tony was so shocked and hurt, he barely paid attention to the proceedings. Bucky hadn’t come.

He’d always feared that Bucky would realize that loving a commoner wasn’t worth the effort and risk. That Tony wasn’t worth giving up the wealth and power of being a lord. He’d known that was a possibility since the first time Bucky had kissed him, all shy blushes and sweet smiles.

But he hadn’t thought Bucky would so utterly _abandon_ him, not like this. He’d have bet his own blood on Bucky’s sense of honor.

And now his blood, and the body that held it, was being sold to a ship’s captain for transportation.

Harley’s hand slipped into Tony’s. “It’s… it’s not so bad, right? Three years of work, and then--” But the boy was crying and he couldn’t finish his sentence. Three years, hard labor, and then, _maybe_ , they could work for passage back to England.

Or stay in Australia. Some people stayed. A lot of people stayed. Without money or support to get home, Australia became their home. 

Tony swallowed down the urge to scream and yell. “Three years isn’t so bad,” he lied. He wanted to put his arm around the boy, comfort him, but the chains wouldn’t allow it. He had to settle for gently squeezing Harley’s hand back. “It’ll be done in no time, and then we’ll... we’ll find our fortunes. You’ll see.”

Harley nodded. “Well, I hope _you_ keep your word better than his lordship,” he muttered. Tony wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that or not.

It scraped against his insides, rubbed salt in the wound of Bucky’s absence. “I’m with you,” he promised. “I won’t leave you.”

* * *

Tony wasn’t there.

The hack carriage had rumbled away into the night, but the spot by the kissing bridge was dark and still and completely empty of horse, Tony, or any sign of their luggage.

Bucky stared for a long moment, but no Tony appeared. 

He’d paid one of the groomsman at the club to bring the horses out, handsomely, at that. There was no reason the horses shouldn’t be here. And even if they weren’t, well, Tony would have waited for him, to explain about the mix up, that something had happened.

Bucky swallowed hard. 

Looked around. There weren’t many people on this end of the park, so late at night, but surely, there was someone who’d seen something. This was the city, nothing ever went entirely unwitnessed.

Bucky found only one person, a lamplighter, who said he’d seen a man and a boy, riding off together, about the time that Tony would have been there. Laughing at some fool of a lord.

Tony would not have done that-- he wouldn’t have just left.

With two horses and all of Bucky’s fortune.

Tony loved him. They were going to go off _together_.

By the time he walked home, his feet were sore and the sun was coming up. And there was some crisis in the house.

“Kitty,” he said, grabbing one of the downstairs maids by the elbow as she rushed by. “What’s happened?”

“Oh, young master James,” she said, waving her hands. “Such a fuss to be had! One of the stableboys stole two horses and some of the Earl’s jewelry, and he and his apprentice thief ran off in the night!”

“Apprentice?”

“Harley, the page! He’s gone off with the stableboy,” she said. “The constable was here an’ everything.”

Bucky almost fell. He did stagger backward until he found himself sitting on the stairs. A man and a boy, on horses. Laughing about some fool of a lord.

Tony had _left_ him. Had taken what Bucky could scrounge to start a life together, and he’d _run off_.

Where, where would he even go? How would Bucky even start to find them? He could spend his whole life looking and never find them. 

The constable-- maybe they could help--

No. If Tony was found stealing from the Earl-- he could be hanged. Or transported. 

Bucky-- Bucky was going to have to pretend he knew nothing, could not help anyone. And hope that Tony _wasn’t_ caught. Just because Tony didn’t love Bucky-- it didn’t change how Bucky felt. It never would.

Bucky managed to get to his feet and climb up to his room. He was very late coming in, no one would wake him for hours. At some point, he’d probably have to answer questions about his horse being gone, and his father would yell at him for being so careless as to misplace them. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter.

Tony would have the mare, and there would be some part of Bucky that would be with him. Take care of him.

Maybe.

If he was crying by the time he reached his bedchamber, well, that was information he did not need to share with anyone else.

His pillows still smelled of Tony’s hair and skin, which only made him cry harder.

After dinner, which Bucky had refused to attend and had failed to eat the tray left for him outside his room, the Earl summoned him down to the library.

_Tony_. 

Maybe Tony had been found, maybe-- Bucky dashed from his room to attend his father. But Tony was nowhere in sight and the Earl's demeanor gave Bucky no clue as to his chosen subject.

"Son," the Earl said, and that was odd enough that Bucky actually looked up at his father. Usually the Earl addressed him as _James_. "I've spoken with some of the servants and I understand that… indiscretions might have taken place."

Bucky almost protested, almost said he _loved_ Tony, but his father held up a hand.

“I’ve warned you about getting too friendly with the staff, but as usual, you seem determined to learn everything the hard way. And this went far beyond coddling a servant simply because you played together as children. It’s not hard to guess what you were planning. I’m sure in the moment it seemed very _romantic_.” The Earl’s lip curled a little in his distaste for romance. “But at least you learned what he was before he disgraced you utterly. I suppose I’ve gotten off cheap -- lost two horses, some books, and a few trinkets, but not my son.”

Bucky didn't know what to do. It hurt somewhere that would never heal. "Yes, sir."

The Earl heaved a sigh. “Look, son. I know it’s hard. It’s a hard lesson to have to learn. But you’ll see, it’s better this way. Now look. I won’t tell your mother what happened. We’ll keep that just between us men, hm?”

The earl seemed to expect a response. "Thank you, sir.” It galled him to say it, he should never have had to. But what else could he do? It was over. Tony had made his choice. "Will you… leave him to go, sir? I… Tony shouldn't pay for my mistakes."

The Earl huffed. “No, but he should pay for stealing. And for hurting you like this. I’ve had the constable out looking all day, but he got quite a head start on us. I doubt we’ll ever see him again.”

"Will you tell me, if you find him? I just… want to ask him why. I think I deserve that much."

“Because he’s a thief and a scoundrel,” the Earl snorted, but he waved his hand. “But yes, if he ever sets foot on my property again, you’ll know about it.”

For a moment, Bucky was forcibly reminded of all the promises broken. Yes, James would be able to go hunting, yes James could get a new jacket. Yes Father would be home soon. But the Earl paid very little attention to his children and promises spoken were just as soon promises forgotten.

"Thank you, sir," Bucky said. "if you will excuse me, I've got to see Mother about attending the Xavier's ball next week. Before the Season of course, but getting an early start won't hurt anything."

The Earl nodded and waved a hand in easy dismissal. “Yes, by all means. Get out there and find someone who’s actually worthy of the Barnes name.”

Bucky fled. He couldn’t have Tony, that was clear. Tony didn’t want him anyway.

He would find someone else.

Two weeks later, he had spoken to nearly every eligible miss and mister in the entire country, it seemed.

He wasn’t going to find someone else.

But he could find consolation in the bottom of a bottle.


	3. Chapter 3

It could have been worse. It could have been _so_ much worse.

There were seventy or so transportees in the ship’s hold, but Tony had overheard the crew talking, and many other ships were cramming twice that number into the same space. There was a bit of sailcloth hung across the room to give the women a little privacy. None of them had been abused or molested by the crew. They were allowed up on deck twice a day, in batches, to stretch their legs and breathe fresh air. The food was bland but not rancid or rotten.

It was all down to the ship’s captain, from what Tony overheard, a somber man with a keen sense of morality.

So being transported could have been far, far worse.

Tony told himself that a lot, because it sure as hell could have been better, too.

Harley had been seasick for the first three days, which had made things even more utterly miserable, but he’d finally found his sea legs. Mostly now, he just huddled against Tony and muttered under his breath about the injustice of it all.

Tony spent most of his time trying not to think about Bucky, about what could have changed Bucky’s mind. He wasn’t very successful in that. Bucky had been the center of Tony’s universe for more years than he cared to count, since even before they’d become lovers. It was as hard to let Bucky go as it was to contemplate the sun never rising again.

He had a little more luck distracting himself when they were above decks. He listened to the sailors gossip and complain, he watched them at their work, he tried to figure out the ship’s workings -- how the mast was anchored to the deck, how the rigging was tied, how the helm connected to the rudder.

But even then, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Bucky would have enjoyed sailing, if they’d booked passage together to America.

He learned to gauge the time by the angle of the sun through the single small porthole at the top of the hold -- they didn’t change direction often.

They were some two weeks into the journey when evening fell and they hadn’t been brought up on deck. Some of the men were grumbling about it when Tony watched the little bit of cloth hung by the porthole flutter in the breeze of their passing. “We’re speeding up,” he observed.

“What?” Harley looked around at him.

Tony nodded toward the cloth. “We’re speeding up. Trying to catch something, maybe?”

“More like tryin’ to outrun somethin’,” said the man on Tony’s other side. “A storm, mayhap, or pirates.”

A shiver ran down Tony’s spine. Being transported and sold into indenture was bad enough. If pirates overtook the ship and claimed the transportees as their prize... That would be worse. That would be a _lot_ worse.

But there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not like this.

By the evening meal -- for the first time they were given a simple share of sailor’s hardtack and a cup of water -- the rumors were flying. Pirates. The ship was being pursued, and as slow as a transport ship was, it was unlikely they’d be able to outrun them.

“If they start shooting, everyone’s like t’ be dead as not,” one man said. “Used to be a sailor, long time ago. On a trade ship. Captain’s orders were allus the same; give over a fifth of the cargo, and any women, to be spared. They punch a hole in the broadside, we’re sunk.”

The mood in the hold was one of barely-restrained panic.

It was probably taking his life into his own hands, but when the sailor with the water bucket came by, Tony said, “Let me out. I can help.”

The sailor aimed a kick at him that only just missed. “Yeah, I bet.”

“No, really,” Tony pressed. “Your cannons aren’t mounted properly. No matter how good your aim is, you’re going to do more damage to this ship than the pirates if you fire them. And you’ve only got the four.”

“Pirates aren’t going to fire on us an’ risk damaging the goods. They’ll board,” another sailor contributed.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” the first said, scowling. “What do you think you can do about it, _thief_?”

“Horses,” Tony said shortly. “I know horses, and I know ways to hold them when they don’t want to be held. I can harness your cannons into place. And--” He considered the materials he’d seen piled around the deck, supplies for repairs. “Maybe a few other tricks, depending on how much time we’ve got ‘til they close.”

“Let Captain Rhodes decide,” the second one said, keeping the first one from aiming another kick at Tony’s just barely healed ribs. “Bring him.”

“Gonna pitch you overboard, myself, if this is a load,” the first one grumbled, but unlocked Tony and hauled him by main force to his feet.

He barely had time to catch Harley’s eye in a glance. “I’ll be back,” he promised, and then they were shoving him up the narrow stair onto the deck.

“I’ve got ‘im,” the second said. “You go back to your post. I’ll take the flack.”

“Likely story,” the first said, and they marched him toward the back of the ship, where he’d never been before.

“Captain, this--”

“--criminal--” the first interjected. “--thief and liar--”

“--man says he can help th’ ship.”

The Captain was tall, with a beaky nose and close-cropped hair. He folded his fingers into a steeple in front of his lips. “Tell me.”

Tony took a breath and started laying it out, the way he’d use some of the spare rope to build a harness that would keep the cannons’ recoil from damaging their decks. The traps that could be built using some fishing net and pitch. The false door he could lay that would drop boarding pirates into the bilge…

“Those are big promises, coming from someone who stole two horses,” the Captain said. “Yes, I know what you did. I know what everyone in my hold has done. I won’t transport rapists or murderers.”

“I didn’t steal them,” Tony said. “My... My lover betrayed me.” He tipped his chin and looked straight into the captain’s eyes. “Try me,” he said. “What’d you pay for us, a pound a head? Pirates take a fifth of the hold, that’s not an insignificant investment you’ve lost and won’t make back. I don’t want three years of indenture, but the pirates will sell us as slaves, or worse. It’s my neck on the line, too.”

“Aw, captain, let me stick ‘im,” the first sailor said, poking Tony in the back with something.

The eyeroll that the Captain directed at Tony was almost playful. _See what I have to work with?_ “Can you actually do all that bullshit you just said?”

“Harness and pitch traps, for sure,” Tony said confidently. “The rest... depends on how long we’ve got.”

“If we can get more draw on them before sundown, there are a few tricks I can do after dark, but the weather hasn’t been cooperating,” the captain admitted. “All right, I’ll let you try. Volunteers from the crew if you need hands. And let me be perfectly clear; I find out you tried to pull one on us, and you will be with the batch the pirates take. I won’t sacrifice any more than I have to, but I won’t let these men drown, either.”

“That’s fair.” He nodded deeply, not quite a bow, and turned to find the tools he’d need.

The rope was both easier and harder to braid than leather, but he persevered, fully aware of the suspicious eyes of the crew on the back of his neck. The first harness took almost a full hour to make, but the next one was easier. When he measured out the rope for a third, one of the crew -- a kid barely older than Harley, dropped down beside him, folding his legs tailor-fashion, and grabbed his own end of a rope. “Show me.”

When the harnesses were in place, Tony moved right on to the bucket of pitch. The kid -- Parker -- tagged along for that, too. He was a quick study, and as soon as Tony showed him the theory, went off to start making a second trap. He pulled in a couple of crew members to help him with that.

“Do you think we’ll be able t’ scare off the pirates, Mr. Stark?” Parker asked. “The cannons are usually just for show, they’ve never been fired since I been aboard, except as a signal, once.”

“Yeah, that’s probably because the gunner knows firing them is just begging to drop one right through the deck,” Tony said. “They’ll hold, now.”

“How’s it going?” the Captain asked, coming up to stand next to Tony. “They’re gaining fast. Be in range within an hour. We won’t be able to hide in the sunset.”

“Cannons secured, pitch traps done,” Tony said, waving at the fruits of his labors. “An hour won’t be enough time for the trapdoor, but if you can tell the crew some spots to avoid, I think I can rig some rabbit-snares big enough to hold a pirate.”

“We fire at them, they’re going to board us,” Captain Rhodes said. “Or try. Are there men in the hold willing to fight, that you trust? I can offer clemency to anyone who fights and doesn’t try to hurt any of my crew. But it might be good, these slavers, not to get what they want. I don’t like the idea of turning _anyone_ over to them.”

“Yeah, there’s a few,” Tony said. “Men, and a couple of the women, too, who were stealing because it was that or starve. They’ll fight.”

The captain nodded. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said. “You could have stayed in the hold and hoped you weren’t one in five. If we live the night, it was an honor to meet you. My name’s Jim Rhodes.”

“Tony Stark. Whether we live or not, likewise. You’ve been fair when a lot of other men wouldn’t have been.”

“Well, unlike the English government, I believe in second chances,” Rhodes said, clapping Tony on the back. “Let’s get ready.”

“Right. I’ll go pull the fighters out of the hold.”

* * *

The crowd was out for blood tonight, Bucky noted.

Not that they usually weren’t out for a bit of sport. The gentlemanly sport of pugilism drew both upper class and lower alike to watch, to cheer, and to bet.

And even more so when they were secret boxing matches, under the wine cellars of some of the better gambling clubs.

Bucky had sought out the entertainment originally just to watch. A place to go where he wouldn’t be bothered by eligibles or polite conversation. Where he could drink and be drunk and no one would care.

But one night, more than a little annoyed with his mother, someone had commented on his fancy coat, and Bucky, having had several drinks, challenged the man to a battle of fisticuffs for the jacket.

The man laid a handful of shillings on the wager, and they managed to work it out on the spot with the fight master.

 _Come on, you yellow bastard, hit me,_ Bucky remembered thinking. Which he did. Bucky’s mother had gone completely around the bend at breakfast the next day, with Bucky’s eye black and green.

But everything else, after that, had been a glorious display of _forgetting_.

For those fourteen minutes he was in the ring, shirt off, shoes off, fighting with a man over a velvet collared jacket, Bucky had been alive in a way he hadn’t been for weeks.

He didn’t have time to grieve for what he’d lost, he needed to pay attention. To be here and now.

To fight.

Even if it was only for a jacket.

There was a small part of himself, willing to admit it. _I think you like getting hit._ Pain that came from the outside was huge. And it drowned out the pain on the inside. He had trouble remembering Tony’s tender smile when Bucky’s entire jaw hurt, or his ears rang for days, drowning out the memory of Tony’s voice.

It wasn’t healthy. Probably.

But it worked.

Except---

Now Bucky was winning.

He was winning; he had a fight-manager. He was a known element.

And, apparently, a fit contender for the pugilism champion of London.

Which was where he was-- looking out at the crowd.

“Fuck me,” Bucky said.

The crowd was thick, hot, filthy. Eager.

“Sam?”

The fight manager clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Do you think I can take him?” 

Sam eyed the fighter on the other side of the ring, bare-chested and gleaming in the lamplight. He was sleek and muscled, like the panther at the zoo pacing in its cage. “Maybe,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Gonna be a hell of a fight, though.”

T’challa -- undisputed, and undefeated champion. There was a prize of five thousand pounds riding on the match, and that didn’t even count all the betting that was going on. Bucky had seen the odds. They were not in his favor.

“Maybe he’ll actually give it to me,” Bucky murmured. What he _deserved_. What he wanted, and honestly, what he needed. Pain. Punishment. Maybe he could finally feel like he’d earned some forgiveness. Some peace.

T’challa stepped up to the center of the ring and bared his teeth at Bucky in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Come, then,” he said. “Show me what you are made of.” 

“Blood and flesh and breath,” Bucky responded. He let his mind go -- well, not quite blank, but feral, somehow. More beast than man. More fury and fight than reason and rhyme.

T’challa was huge, broader in the shoulder and hip than Bucky, all lean, deadly grace. The crowd roared its approval, and some hooting to get on with things. There was music somewhere in the background, and Bucky could smell roasted meat and cheap beer over the general stench of the ring’s audience.

He circled, watching how T’challa moved, the way his eyes swept cool and careful. No emotions, except a certain eagerness. He wouldn’t be one to get riled and lose his temper. No, this would be a clean fight. Clean, but dangerous.

Bucky’s blood sang with glee and he waited, ignoring the crowd. Watching the man’s body shift under the lights. A quick flick of his hand, and Bucky responded. A stinging blow to Bucky’s throat, and a return, a jab at T’challa’s ribs.

T’challa was faster than any man that big had any right to be. It took Bucky a few exchanges to catch the rhythm of it, the way T’challa would dance and spin out of Bucky’s reach and then suddenly pounce back inside it.

First blood went to Bucky, as he projected the big man’s path, caught a perfectly timed punch to the ribs, skin splitting both on T’challa’s side, and Bucky’s knuckle. That wasn’t unusual, his knuckles were raw these days, more often than not. He barely noticed it, except to sling his hand down to clear the first gush of blood. The crowd’s cheering grew deafening, so much nonsense.

T’challa just nodded in acceptance of the point and shifted his stance a little, changed the rhythm of his movements. Just a fraction, but enough that Bucky would have to re-learn it.

T’challa came out the winner of the next exchange, bloodying Bucky’s nose and boxing one ear without taking more than a few bruises to his shoulders and legs from Bucky’s not-quite-fast-enough attempts to block and kick.

Bucky was breathing harder, heart racing. Sweat slicked his cheek and throat. The dirt on the floor under his feet was gritty. Everything was gone, just the need to move, to strike. The crowd went wild, and Bucky wasn’t even entirely sure if he was winning or losing. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. There was a brilliant flash of pain as T’challa landed a stunning blow to his head, and then warm, red. Head wound; they bled a lot. Much more, really, than the injury would suggest necessary. 

He snarled, backing off and wiping the blood away from his eyes. Someone in the crowd handed him a glass of whiskey and Bucky drank half of it, panting for breath, then dumped the rest over his head. It stung the cut, but would keep it clean. In theory.

“Is that all you got?” Bucky screamed. “Come on, come on, hit me like you mean it!”

T’challa grinned at him, and there was blood in his teeth that just served to make them seem even whiter. “At last, a challenge,” he said, his eyes sparking with excitement. He shook his head like a horse shaking off flies, and charged.

At first, Bucky had no idea what happened; there was a flash-flare of light, so bright he could barely see. Every gaslamp in the building grew to a tiny ball of flame; and some of them exploded, the glass overheating. People screamed, and the room went completely dark, drowning them in darkness. 

More screaming, and then noise, like the voice of God; thunder so loud that Bucky thought they were, in fact, _inside it_.

And somewhere, in the darkness and fear and rage, was his enemy.

Bucky struck out, blindly, to ward off a blow he knew was coming. There was a sharp crack of pain across his forearm, and then--

“Everyone stay calm!” Someone was yelling, which was good. Bucky could hear that, which meant he had not been suddenly struck blind and deaf.

“T’challa,” Bucky said, not knowing if he could be heard, not knowing if T’challa was listening. “T’challa, forfeit, we _forfeit_! We can’t fight like this.”

“No forfeit,” T’challa’s rich voice came out of the black. “But there is no joy in fighting blind. We will finish this another day.”

At least there was no one else in the ring; Bucky could sense the panic, people trying to find the exits. “Right-- another day.” Bucky laughed, and then someone in the club had the sense to bring in a small, mirrored lantern, casting enough light to see.

T’challa was bloody, hands on his knees as he panted for breath. Bucky probably didn’t look much better, really. “A draw. Schedule a rematch,” Bucky said. A draw. No other fighter had come so close as Bucky did-- he would drink well that night, on even that much. And, perhaps, T’challa would beat him. Later. “Come, Prince of Wakanda, and we’ll see if you can hold your whiskey like an Englishman.”

T’challa laughed and slung his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “In this as in so much else, Wakanda is superior. I will show you!”


	4. Chapter 4

“Quite the reverse in fortune,” Captain Rhodes said, looking into the hold. The pirate ship was taking on water, and would, in due course, sink, but for the moment, they were safe enough. The pirates who weren’t dead had surrendered in exchange for a place in the hold of a ship that wasn’t sinking. There were several crates from the East India Trading Company -- bricks of tea -- as well as waxed leather bags of sugar.

Several coffers filled to the brim with coins, pearls, and gems that had been prisened out of their settings. There were books and leathers, furs and bolts of silk.

Tucked in a case full of maps -- including the preferred shipping lanes for several companies -- was an old, creased piece of parchment that was as blank as if it had never known a quill. Except that it was filthy, covered in fingerprints. 

Tony unfolded it and stared. Why keep a blank piece of paper with valuable maps?

There had been paper aplenty in the captain’s quarters. Why was this one special? He eyed the smudgy fingerprints for a moment, then coughed out a laugh. “Be right back,” he told Rhodes, and dashed up the narrow steps. He held the paper up high, between him and the sun. It didn’t make the paper any more readable, but he could definitely see faint lines, where _something_ had scratched over the page.

He looked around and headed for the galley. It was lit with a few hurricane lamps, as members of Rhodes’ crew packed up the pirates’ food stores for transfer to their own vessel. “Don’t mind me,” he told them, and tucked himself into a corner where he’d be out of the way. He held the paper just over the top of one of the lamps, letting it gather heat, careful not to let it singe, holding his breath.

The paper yellowed and then dark lines scrolled out from the heated spot as the ink warmed, showed itself. A crude map, with childlike notes to a starting point, and counts for how many steps, with a bold X near the middle.

“Ha!” He ignored the looks the other crew were casting him, then rolled up the paper and ran back down into the hold, all but sliding down the stairs. “Captain!” He shoved the paper at Rhodes, bouncing on his toes with glee.

“You are entirely too happy for a man who nearly fell overboard,” Rhodes said. He was grinning anyway, waving his crew to move the hold’s contents over to the Marvel’s hold. “But this will pay forgiveness for many of your fellow inmates. What have you there?”

“A map,” Tony said with a grin. “Look!”

“Someone needs to take a cartography class,” Rhodes complained, squinting at it. “The island’s distinctive enough, should we happen over it, but without coordinates? There are so many uncharted islands, you could search for decades and never find it.”

“I would wager there’s a mark somewhere that gives us coordinates,” Tony said. “He’d not have wanted to risk forgetting.”

“I’m inclined to be tolerant,” Rhodes said. “You said you could secure the cannons, which you did. And save our ship, which you also did. If you can find these coordinates, I _might_ be convinced to mount an expedition.”

Tony’s grin stretched wide and he scooped up the case of maps. “I’ll be in the captain’s cabin, then,” he said, tossing Rhodes a jauntily sloppy salute. If it wasn’t in the case where the map had been stored, then it would be in the cabin, where the pirate captain could have kept it close.

The captain’s logbook was written in a simple replacement cipher; the sort of thing that would hide information from people who were barely literate, but Tony and Bucky had been doing ciphers to arrange their meetings for years. Pushing aside thoughts of his former lover, Tony cracked the code within moments. The first sentence of the journal gave the whole thing away, even if it took Tony a few minutes to realize what he was looking at.

“ _Cwm fjord bank glyphs vext quiz_ ” 

Each letter of the alphabet, exactly once, and below it, was the code. Simpleton. 

It would take a while to translate the entire journal, but Tony would be willing to bet his freedom that the coordinates were in this book. Why bother to cipher it, otherwise?

He scrawled the cipher on a scrap of paper so it would be easy to reference, then pulled out a fresh piece of paper and started translating. If the coordinates weren’t near the beginning of the book, he’d have to take it back to the _Marvel_ with him to finish the job, but he was fairly certain that Rhodes wouldn’t forget about him and leave him to drown when the pirate ship went under.

“You getting attached to this piece of flotsam?” Rhodes asked, sticking his head in the cabin. “What are you _doing_?”

The pirate captain apparently collected secrets as well as treasure. There was a goldmine of information, probably for the purposes of blackmail, if the captain was ever captured, to bargain for his freedom and life.

But on the third page, he had gone into detail on a cluster of islands off the coast of Massachusetts, where he had _lain to rest treasure for my dearest, to win her heart and our freedom._

“Think I found your coordinates,” Tony told Rhodes. He stuffed the map in the journal and wrapped the whole bundle in heavy oilcloth to protect it from the spray. “Want to go on a treasure hunt?”

Rhodes grimaced. “Georgia first. The climate is less harsh than Van Deiman’s Land, and the dockmaster won’t ask too many questions about why I have more crew and less prisoners than expected. We’ll outfit there, and see if we can find this _pirate treasure_ of yours.”

“Truly? Well, I’d promised Harley we should go to the Americas when we’d paid our indenture. He’ll be pleased.” Tony could barely suppress his urge to dance around in excitement. It might all come to nothing, after all. But then again, it might come to _something_.

“Well, come on, then. Grab anything from here you want to keep as a trophy. This wreck is going under.”

Tony cast a quick look around the cabin. The most valuable items had already been looted, but there was a very nice pen set and a bottle of india ink in a shallow well of the desk. Tony scooped them up and tucked them in his shirt. “Let’s go.”

The _Marvel_ was only a little damaged; the rail had been hacked by boarding hooks, and one of the sails was shredded. Nothing that they couldn’t fix, without even needing to resupply. It would be decidedly faster to sail to the Americas, thirty days to the almost three months to Australia. No one in England would wonder where the Captain and the _Marvel_ had gone off to for at least half a year. Plenty of time to run up the coast to Boston and see what they could find.

The only fly in the ointment, really, was thinking about Bucky, who would have found it all a grand adventure, no doubt.

Tony closed his eyes and did his best to banish thoughts of Bucky, who, after all, had left Tony and Harley to their fate.

* * *

T’challa was as good -- or as bad -- as his word. The man could hold his liquor. But Bucky was angry and had begun to defile himself months ago at this point. He could drink and be blind drunk and still function. Mostly. He’d had a few nights where he’d consumed so much alcohol that he literally could not remember what he’d done; although people would assure him that he’d continued to do it.

Not the passing out sort of drunk at all. 

T’challa did not seem that sort either, but he did talk more, as he got more intoxicated.

“Wait, wait, what?” Bucky insisted, “Your _sister_ is your boxing coach?”

T’challa held up a finger and waggled it at him. “Do not discount her because she is a girl, or because she is so small. She is fierce like a lioness and fast like a cheetah. She can take me to the floor, three falls out of five.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “This I should be very interested in seeing. You’ll have to introduce us.” He gave T’challa a sly look. “Is she yet engaged?” Because if there was anyone that his father would approve of less as a potential spouse than a commoner, it would be a dark-skinned Princess from Africa. That would send the Earl on a tirade, and these days, Bucky lived for upsetting the Earl.

He knew it wasn’t his father’s fault that Tony had left, but-- well, there was no but to be had. Bucky was angry and hurt, and his father was the only available target for his rage. Aside from himself. 

T’challa laughed. “No man has yet drawn her eye from her first love: science.”

“Well, you should all come to our town house for dinner,” Bucky said, expansively. “I would be vastly entertained, my father will be appalled, and my mother will be matchmaking with someone whose heart I could never possibly win, so, points all the way around.”

T’challa’s eyes glinted with something like amusement. “A heartfelt invitation if ever I’ve heard one. I shall consult with my sister and see what she thinks, if she can tear herself away from the library for an evening. Here--” He fished a calling card from his jacket, thick paper and an elegant script giving his direction, and slid it across the table. “You should bring your lady mother to call, so that my sister can practice her English manners.”

Bucky tucked the card into his pocket. “We have an accord, then,” he said. “And if you should lose this rematch fight with me, I expect your support in convincing your sister to two dances at the Van Dyne’s ball, for which I will procure you tickets.” Two dances was not too many, enough to set tongues wagging that someone had caught his eye, but not enough to make people start planning the wedding breakfast.

T’challa chuckled. “Should I lose the rematch to you, I expect my sister to berate me so roundly that I’ll not be able to get in a word for some days. But she certainly will want to meet you, in such a case.”

“Brilliant,” Bucky replied. He looked around the taproom where they’d been drinking steadily. Most of the other customers were either asleep on the tables (or in some cases, under the tables) or had gone in search of other entertainment. Bucky didn’t feel like finding a sporting companion, but the night was getting quiet enough that his thoughts were starting to come back in. “This place has grown a little dull. I believe I will go in seek of more lively company in a boneyard, or one of the dockside bars.” 

He could, in fact, probably have a few more drinks and then find sailors looking for a fight, and end up brawling in a public street. That would be entertaining. He stood up, waited to see if his legs were going to hold him. Good, good, they were still mostly steady. Not entirely -- they seemed to have a mind of their own, and he was already making his way toward the door without saying a proper farewell.

T’challa probably wouldn’t mind. African manners being somewhat different, and perhaps less stern than uptight English ones. “I look forward to calling upon your sister,” he cried out, just as he pushed the door open.

T’challa lifted his glass in a silent toast, his expression -- probably -- amused. 

It should not have been that busy; it was well past midnight. But as there were always eternally inebriated gentlemen seeking entertainment, a few carriages were moving along the streets. Bucky staggered out, looking for his own carriage. Unless Sam had taken it; Sam did not typically join Bucky for his post-fight entertainment. Well that was it, Sam had probably taken it, because Bucky couldn’t see it, or his driver. 

Well, perhaps down one of the side streets.

A carriage rattled by, and then another.

Maybe--

He stepped off the sidewalk. Staggered toward the opposite side of the road.

That carriage was moving quite quickly, and Bucky tried to move backward, to get out of the way. They weren’t slowing down at all.

His feet got tangled up in each other, and--

He pitched forward into the street, arm outstretched in vain to catch himself.

The horses cried out as the driver yanked on the reins, trying to swerve away, and there were sparks as the wheels were dragged sideways on the stone of the streets. For just an instant, it was merely a moment of fear, quickly to be followed by relief--

\--and then the carriage tipped over altogether.

The horses screamed and the driver cursed and Bucky was on the hard ground, the carriage half on him, pressing him down, and his arm was on _fire_.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t do so much as raise his head, and while he was laying there, trying to make sense of what had happened, his last thought, before darkness closed over him and took him away, was that he finally, finally found enough pain.

* * *

Bucky wasn’t sure where he was, or how long it had been. He remembered someone forcing a cup of foul-tasting water on him from time to time. After a while, he noted that those sips of water came with a relief from pain and he learned to open his mouth eagerly for the glass.

There was a lot of nothingness, a cotton padding separating him from the world.

He wondered if he’d died, but he expected Hell would be even more uncomfortable, and he hadn’t earned a Heaven.

He couldn’t seem to open his eyes.

Everything hurt.

Sometimes, he could hear someone talking to him, but he didn’t understand the words at all. It wasn’t a familiar voice. Not all the time.

Once, he thought he heard his mother crying, which made him wonder, again, if he’d died.

Gradually, slowly, like watching a portrait master paint, the world came into focus.

Days, more than likely. Weeks. Maybe a month. He wasn’t sure.

But he did, in fact, finally, open his eyes and accept that he had not, despite the best efforts of the world and his own stupidity, died.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Bucky murmured. The person who was at his bedside wasn’t his mother. Or his father, which might have been expected. Or Tony, which Bucky would admit that he could have hoped for.

But T’challa and a young woman who had to be his sister. Without really thinking about it, he said-- something. A different language entirely slid out of his mouth, liquid and beautiful. “ _Greetings, Princess_.”

“ _You see?_ ” she said to T’challa triumphantly. “ _I told you it would work!_ ” She beamed at Bucky. “ _Welcome back, White Wolf._ ”

“ _What happened?_ ” His tutors would have been amazed, shocked. He’d tried and failed more than once to learn to speak French, and here he was speaking -- well, it must have been Wakandan -- without even thinking about it.

“You were unconscious most of the time,” the princess told him, switching back into English. “But sometimes lucid. You rested easier, if someone was talking to you, so I thought I would teach you some of our language.”

Bucky nodded as if this made sense, because even if it didn’t, he obviously did know a few words in the language. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Tony had come, or sent a letter, or something -- surely, even if Tony was on the run with his ill-gained wealth, he would have cared that Bucky was so grievously injured. But he couldn’t bear to hear the answer, which was quite surely, not. 

He attempted to sit, to offer a hand to the Princess in gratitude for her nursing.

He--

His hand--

He couldn’t sit, couldn’t reach--

His hand, oh, _God_.

“Steady,” T’challa said, deep and smooth, and his hand was on Bucky’s shoulder, pressing him back into the pillows. “Steady. It’s a shock, I’m sure. There was no other choice. I’m sorry.”

“It’s gone?” Bucky asked, stupid, his voice high with panic and shock. “The-- how much of it?”

T’challa’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Most of the arm. To just below the shoulder. It was, the horses, and the wreck of the carriage-- You might well have died.”

“So it appears, despite my best efforts,” Bucky said, “that God has no use for me, as yet. Thank-- thank you for your care, it’s…” He blinked and found himself staring at the ceiling, trying not to weep in front of near-strangers, although certainly, if they’d attended him during a lengthy recovery, they had seen worse. 

“It is the least that I could do,” T’challa said gravely. “I should not have allowed you to leave alone, unsteady as you were.”

“I,” the princess announced brightly, “am going to build you a new arm.”

“I am hallucinating and obviously have taken entirely too much laudanum,” Bucky said. “Did you say you were going to… _build me an arm_?”

“Certainly,” she said. “An arm is not so very complex a mechanism, after all.”

“Shuri,” T’challa chided. “The man has only just awoken. You must allow him time to understand all that has happened.”

“I understand,” Bucky said, and he did. In trying to forget Tony, trying to give himself something else to think about, something else to feel. He’d accomplished it, beyond anything that he’d expected, and perhaps it was his punishment, that it be so terrible.


	5. Chapter 5

“I never would have thought,” Tony mused, twisting to look at himself in the tailor’s mirror, “that being sentenced to transportation would be the making of me.”

Half of Captain Rhodes’ crew had scoffed at the idea of a treasure map, and opted to remain in Georgia, where the weather was fair and the seas less treacherous. Which had meant all the larger share for Tony and the others who’d opted to accompany them northward.

Tony was a wealthy man, now. More than rich enough to buy his passage back to England -- but why would he? What was in England for him but a lover who’d not loved him enough?

Even if thinking of Bucky still made Tony’s throat close with longing. He coughed it open again and solicited the tailor’s opinion on a cravat to accent the suit he was buying. He had an appointment next week with the bank and it would be good to look clever and prosperous.

He and Harley had taken their shares of the treasure, shaken Captain Rhodes’ hand most warmly, and then come to New York. It wasn’t quite as large as London, but it was more than big enough, bustling and exciting and bursting with possibilities. He’d let a small house for the two of them, even hired a tutor for Harley, much to the boy’s occasional disgust.

“You look like a Knickerbocker,” Harley accused from his position near the door. He was also being fitted for new clothes, but he had fewer choices and less need to look more than respectable.

“Well, I can hardly go before the bank looking like a groomsman,” Tony countered, “or a prisoner, if I want them to consider my proposition favorably.”

“You’re not either of those things,” Harley said. “Not no more. You’re an adventurer and a hero and a wealthy man with pirate treasure. Actual _pirate treasure_. I’m going to write a book about it.”

“I look forward to reading it,” Tony said. “You could make me a bit taller, too. But being a wealthy man won’t last if I don’t do something productive with that treasure. Thus, the time I have spent these past few weeks looking over facilities that might suit my purpose, and thus, the bank.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just go looking for more treasure,” Harley said. “Sounds like fun. And, we’re, you know, connected, so whatever’s fun for me is fun for you.”

Tony scoffed. “It’s a losing game, over time,” he said. “It costs rather a lot to run a ship. Sailing around in the hope of stumbling over pirates and buried treasure is no way to keep your fortune.”

“We could get a letter of Marque, become privateers and hunt down fat merchant ships with a license from the King to do it,” Harley suggested. He was not, Tony had discovered, very much into the idea of respectable business. “Or-- or a bounty hunter. That might be exciting. Track down criminals in the west and bring them to justice.”

Tony laughed, shedding the half-sewn suit coat and stepping down from the tailor’s platform. “I plan to become a famous inventor,” he said. “I will make things to delight, amaze, and improve the world.”

Harley chewed on the side of his pencil for a moment, then scratched something else in his little notebook. “Well, I suppose I could write about that. But adventure books are going to sell better. Maybe you could invent something amazing and go on adventures with it?”

Tony paid the tailor and then slung his arm around Harley’s shoulders to steer them out of the shop. “You could just _make up_ the adventures,” he suggested. “All of the excitement, none of the danger.”

“Do you think that’s what other writers do?”

“I rather expect so. Not that you’re likely to have anything published if you don’t improve your penmanship.”

Harley scoffed. “I’ll hire a secretary. Are we done shopping yet? I want to go to the park.”

Tony had a few items left to find, but he waved a tolerant hand. “Go on, then. Stay out of trouble and be home by nightfall.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” Harley protested. “It just _finds me_.”

“Hide better,” Tony advised, suppressing a smile.

They could be happy here, he thought. With time. Time to build a home and a business, time to make friends, time to forget the heartaches and pains of the last months. Time, even, to find new love?

Maybe not that last; the thought left Tony cold. But the rest of it... that was something they could do. They could be comfortable. Content, at least.

Provided, of course, that the bank approved a loan based on little aside from speculation. Tony had some seed money and an idea, the ability to work hard, and a letter of recommendation from Captain Rhodes -- that last was what would probably secure the loan. Even in America, it seemed it was not what you knew, but who you had as a friend.

The loan would secure the lease for the foundry Tony had picked out and let him refit it and then... Then he would make Stark Industry a household name. He smiled a little, watching Harley running through the crowds toward the park.

He couldn’t help but wonder if word of his enterprise would reach Bucky, someday. If Bucky would wonder whether that was the same Stark who’d been his lover, his dalliance. What would Tony say, if they were ever to come face to face again?

Tony let himself daydream for a moment, then shook it off. He had work to do.

* * *

_Anthony Edward Stark_

“What are you doing?” Countess Barnes, wife of Earl George Barnes, mother to James Barnes and Rebecca Barnes, asked.

Bucky hastily crumpled the piece of paper and threw it in the direction of the fireplace. He missed, of course. He could barely hold a quill in his right hand, his letters were childish and awkward and huge. Throwing was nearly out of the question.

“Practicing,” he said, getting up. He wouldn’t have stood at all -- the laudanum tended to make his head swimmy and his balance unsteady -- but he was afraid his mother might actually uncrumple the paper. He got to it and disposed of it, watching the flames lick the paper like it was a tasty treat before disappearing into black smoke and ash. “Everything I know, I have to learn again.”

“Well, maybe not _every_ thing,” she said. She placed a small stack of neatly folded papers on the corner of the desk. “I brought the news and your mail. If you’d like help responding to the invitations, of course, you need only ask.”

“Probably should,” he said. “Even given that I’m missing an arm, bad handwriting is not acceptable.” He tried not to sound bitter about it, but the face his mother made, stern, but deciding not to scold, said he didn’t succeed.

Bucky indicated his desk, and waited until she put the letters down before he attended them-- someone had already slit the seals and unfolded them. He was, in fact, probably looking at the person who did so.

He tried not to be angry about that, too. It wasn’t like he could open them himself without mauling the paper beyond legibility.

“Who requests my attendance,” Bucky wondered. He’d only just been able to get out of bed for more than a few hours. Someone might have wanted him for a musicale, to listen to a daughter or son saw at an instrument. He was quite certain no one was inviting him to make a fourth at cards.

“Most of them are just notes,” she said, showing no shame whatsoever at having read his mail. “Well-wishes. Some of them have been here for days. I didn’t think you’d want to see them until you were... feeling a little better. There’s only a handful of invitations, really. A musicale, a luncheon, a garden party.”

No dancing, of course. Because who wanted a one-armed dance partner?

Amazing, how it galled him so. Four months ago, he wouldn’t have wanted a dance partner at all, nor looked at anyone with the thought of taking them into his arms.

He still didn’t particularly want anyone -- except the one person he couldn’t have -- but it stung, deep where he couldn’t reach it that no one wanted him at all.

“Let’s start with the invitation list, then,” Bucky said, sighing. “Who wants to do a garden party?” Sit and talk. Probably not have to eat one handed and spill down his shirt, or listen to someone’s terrible performance on the pianoforte.

She reached past him to shuffle through the notes, extracting one and offering it to him. “That’s from the Jones’. It’s not for another week.” She hesitated, then observed, “Their second daughter is quite attractive.”

“A good help mate?” Bucky wondered. “Dutiful, biddible, not a good marriage candidate for reasons spoken of in a whisper?”

Bucky’s mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You will have to marry eventually,” she pointed out. “You’re not the only young man who’s been so badly injured. Most of them seem to do well enough.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Bucky shot back. “So, is she a hellion, a simpleton, or cross-eyed?” If she was a hellion, Bucky was more likely to consider it. Someone who would tend his house and stay out of his way, as long as he gave her the same courtesy. 

“She is none of those things. Do you think I would wish such a wife upon you? I want you to be _happy_ , James.”

Ah. She was dead broke, then, with no dowry and needed a rich husband to keep her family out of debt. “What’s her name, this handsome miss?”

“Jessica. I’m not saying you _must_ marry her, but you should at least talk to her.” She drew a fresh page from its cubby and dipped the pen in the ink. “Shall I pen a response for you, then?”

“Thank you, Mother.” He tried really hard to be polite to his mother. None of this was, in any way, her fault. And of course she only wanted him to be happy, as unlikely as that prospect was. Well, she’d be happy if she thought he was well-looked-after and attended to, so he might as well try that. God knew, someone around here should be happy.

Eventually, she’d jotted all the responses for him, accepting and declining invitations, thanking well-wishers for their considerations, all in her elegant hand, the one he’d so tried to emulate as a boy first learning his letters. “All right, my darling,” she said as she put the pen away and gathered up the notes to be mailed. “I’ll leave you to the paper for a while, then. There was quite a diverting little story on page 4.”

“Delightful, thank you, Mother,” Bucky said.

He wondered what that could be, his mother not really one for the sort of gossip the paper printed, and certainly not for the actual news. She could generally not be bothered about the workings of Parliament or any of the various reports on colonies or former colonies. 

He waited until she left before struggling to flip open the paper and spread it out. 

_Adventurers Find Fortune Amidst Peril!_ the headline insisted.

> Cpt. R----, a loyal and true citizen, was overtaken by privateers in the waters just off the Spanish coast. Thanks to his brave crew, the scoundrels were defeated, the prisoners taken directly to the Georgia colony to be sentenced. The good Cpt was well-rewarded for his bravery, not by the Crown, but by Fate!
> 
> He found on the privateer’s vessel a map and a set of coordinates, and with a hand-picked crew of volunteers, set out to discover if there was anything to find. To their great delight and fortune, there was -- an entire treasury of stolen coin and goods, enough to make our Cpt and his crew into men of leisure, should they so desire.
> 
> Cpt. R---- has chosen to return to the sea, but confides that he looks forward to the luxury of being more choosy with his cargo. Several of the crew opted to remain behind in the Americas, settling mostly in New York. One of them, Mr. S----, plans to build his fortune into something even greater, and will be starting a business. Not all of the crew confessed to their plans, but at least one, a Mr. P----, will be returning to England to ask for the hand of his love. A well-deserved reward, indeed!

Bucky shook his head. “An adventure against pirates and treasure.” Tony would have loved it, Bucky imagined. Going off to America for excitement and to win their fortunes. Why, he wondered, for the hundredth time, could Tony not have waited for him. Surely, surely they could have done it together. Whatever it was.

* * *

“No, I can’t wait,” Tony said testily. “It’s a foundry, we make things out of steel. If we don’t have steel, then we cannot make things. You see my dilemma. Am I to pay the factory workers to stand around? Or ask them to _wait_ , before they’re able to earn the wages they use to feed their families?” He leaned on the desk, a mannerism he was stealing from Earl Brooklyn, as it happened. He loathed the man, but couldn’t deny that he’d been an effective businessman. “I was promised steel two weeks ago. Unless there is steel in my warehouse by week’s end, Mr. Lehnsherr, I will be forced to claim you in breach of contract.”

Lehnsherr’s eyebrow went up, as if he doubted Tony’s will to bring a suit against him. Or maybe it was something else he was doubting. Tony had been dealing with supply and quality issues of every sort since he started. It wasn’t, he thought, that America was backward and filled with idiots, but that, perhaps, he hadn’t earned the social capital to make a go of business here. Not yet.

But he would. He was determined to make this work. The bank had been generous with the loan and the terms, but if he didn’t have something to show for it, and soon, he’d be in a bind.

“I shall see what can be done, Mr. Stark,” Lehnsherr said. “In the meanwhile, I should like to see what upgrades you’ve made to the facility. Call it neighborly curiosity. No one thought this old place would be worth purchasing.”

Tony considered it for a moment -- if Lehnsherr was trying to steal his secrets, surely he would be less obvious. Anyway, the most fruitful upgrades weren’t the foundry itself, but in what Tony would do with the parts the foundry produced. “By all means,” he agreed. “I think you might be interested to see how I’ve upgraded the forges. The fires burn hotter and longer, with less tending and fuel. That is, of course, a savings, but the real benefit is how quickly we can prepare the steel for shaping. Where the factory was previously going through a half-ton of steel in a week, I believe we can double that rate.”

Which, of course, would mean more money in Lehnsherr’s pocket. To a point. Tony had also made some improvements to the rest of the factory that allowed for thinner working and less waste. But if he could convince Lehnsherr it was worth the investment, maybe he could push to get the steel into the warehouses sooner.

“By all means,” Lehnsherr said. “That could be quite spectacular. If it can be achieved, you’ll have orders standing out for at least a year. Travel expenses, you know. I don’t think anyone in the old world really has any idea just how large this country is. I’ve gone west further than most, and back again, and the sheer magnitude, it’s incredible. Of course, it does make for slow going.”

Tony nodded and cackled inwardly. Engines, train engines, were in high demand, and the stronger and more efficient they were, the better. Tony had several different designs already sketched out that he was eager to try. “I hope someday to see more of it,” he said. “Of course, in order to do that, I’ll need steel.”

“Well, your detractors said you were impatient,” Lensherr said, after touring the factory, “but I must say, I’m impressed with your vision. You’ll have your steel, Mr. Stark, by week’s end. And--” he extended a card, which in London would have been horrifically tacky, a business card, heavens. Tony could almost hear Countess Barnes on her tear about American manners. “Should you like, some of my partners engage in social dinners. If you’d care to join us, Monday next?”

Well. When in America. Tony took the card and checked the address. “I’d be delighted,” he agreed. At least, some level of social entry could only help him. “It’s very kind of you.”

“I do hope you play at cards, Mr. Stark,” Lehnsherr said. “We usually have a few hands.”

“It’s been some time since I’ve played,” Tony said, resolutely not thinking about the afternoon he and Bucky had spent hiding in the loft of the stables as Bucky taught him to play cards. “You may have to fill me in on the local variants.”

“I’m sure I can arrange someone to sit by you and guide your hand.”


	6. Chapter 6

The Jones family was sitting on the very edge of genteel poverty, but their manor home was, in fact, lovely. A bit in ill-repair; there were signs of fading upholstery and patched curtains, and the older daughter’s skirts had been turned out a few times.

Not that _Bucky_ noticed, but his mother had made a few observations with her friends as they were taken into the parlor.

Entailed; that’s what Bucky had heard. The estate was to go off to a cousin or grandnephew or something, and so the two girls were on the marriage mart. Sold to the highest bidder.

The garden party had a particularly large number of eligible gentlemen, and not quite enough ladies to balance things out.

The father must be ill.

Bucky shook his head, said all the proper things, and when the party moved outside for games, he told his mother he was going to stroll through the garden. Loudly enough that Lady Jones heard him, which meant he was probably going to be accosted by an eligible miss with the hour.

But maybe he could actually look at the grounds before that happened.

The garden, too, showed signs of neglect, and Bucky didn’t need his mother to point those out: brambles that hadn’t been cleared from the path, weeds mixed in amongst the flowers, roses that had been allowed to grow leggy. But there were also signs of recent care -- freshly-turned earth and a lost work glove near a half-full watering can.

It was a pretty little garden, all things considered, with a wandering path that ducked behind bushes and clusters of trees to offer an illusion of privacy and space much greater than the courtyard actually allowed. Whoever had planned it had been quite clever.

And there were the expected footsteps. Bucky suppressed a sigh; it wasn’t the girls’ fault that Lady Jones was shoving both daughters toward the eligible gentlemen as hard as she possibly could.

“Mother thought I should come make sure you didn’t get lost in the maze.” That was Jessica, the younger sister. Her tone was flat, her expression exasperated. “I told her that it’s not a terribly complex maze and anyone who actually managed to get lost in it probably deserved their fate, but-- Well, mothers.”

“Would I starve before supper, do you suppose?” Bucky asked her. She was remarkably unenthusiastic, for someone who’d been told to go out and get herself a rich husband. Even the dullest eligibles usually managed a light laugh and a touch on the wrist. Not that Bucky had a spare wrist, really. Maybe that was the problem. 

She was a handsome girl. Not pretty, her features were too strong and her expression a little fierce for prettiness. But she did have lovely hair. Very dark brown, almost black. Like Tony’s. Bucky sighed and wondered if he’d ever stop comparing people to Tony.

“It’s possible,” Jessica said thoughtfully. “Berries are well out of season.” She stepped up beside him and looked down the path. “I’ve always liked this garden.”

“This is the part where I’m supposed to offer you my arm and suggest a tour of the maze,” Bucky said. “I suppose you’ll have to be satisfied with an ‘after you’?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to tie up your arm as we walk,” she said. “You might need it to defend me, after all. From the wild animals, you see.” She smirked a little, but gamely led the way down the path.

“Brava, Miss Jones, that was very well done,” Bucky said. Usually he made people very uncomfortable by directing attention to his missing arm, as if him acknowledging it was some enormously rude, but unintentional, act. The social equivalent of farting at dinner or something.

The missing arm; his missing arm. It was either unmentioned, unspoken of, unacknowledged, like an elephant in the parlor. Or people asked endlessly personal questions about it. He was still mortified by the one older lady who asked him how he unbuttoned his trousers. He’d come very close to suggesting that her husband had done it for him, but decided that would horrify his mother too much.

“Truly?” She glanced at him, looking amused. “Usually that sort of answer gets me _that look_ from my mother and a reminder that no respectable person wants a wife with so sharp a tongue.”

“Do you think I look _respectable_? I’m flattered, Miss Jones.”

“You look like heir to an earldom,” Jessica said bluntly, “which buys you respectability enough, at least in my mother’s eyes.”

“True enough,” Bucky said. “Which I suppose is for the best. If I were a mere Mister--” Well, no one would send pretty young things after him. Bucky wasn’t quite sure it was for the best. He did not, in fact, _want_ to marry anyone. But much like paying taxes and looking after his tenants, it was part of his responsibility as the earl. Whenever that lofty position fell to him.

He was probably not going to be a very good earl, so he would need a worthy countess or count, and a very, very good estate manager.

“If you were a mere Mister,” Jessica said, picking up the thread, “then you would be able to court whomever you liked, instead of wasting time at garden parties?”

“Well, perhaps,” Bucky said. If he’d been a mere mister, someone like Tony wouldn’t have latched onto him as a source of easy income. He might have known sooner what sort of person Tony was. If he hadn’t been blinded to the flattery and affection that came with the gifts. And then the threat of losing that station. He’d decided that had to be what it was. Bucky, determined to wed Tony, to treat him with honor and respect, had been about ready to throw away his entire fortune.

Tony was probably in some other part of England, even now, charming some other rich, fond idiot.

“At least I would know the person I courted cared for me for more than my station and money. Cared for _me_.”

“It’s a terrible dilemma,” Jessica agreed. “Am I supposed to profess my immediate and ardent admiration now?”

If Bucky had two hands, he would have clapped for her. “That’s very well done indeed,” he said. “She refuses to take up the bait, and does not in the slightest bit attempt to win me over with her sympathy for my plight. Truly, I could actually grow to _like_ you.”

“Ah, and now I shall be flattered that such a well-placed gentleman might consider thinking of my company as pleasant. Truly, I am all aflutter.”

Bucky was startled into a laugh, genuine and amused, and all the more startling because he hadn’t had to force it, to remember that laughing was a thing people did. If he’d met her first-- well, he might have started to fancy the _possibility_. Without knowing what love was, and the way it carved out great holes in one’s chest…

“All ridiculous society notions aside, Miss Jones,” Bucky said, leaning over to observe a flower more closely. “What is it that you wish to accomplish from our little _tete-a-tete_?”

“A moment of peace. If I’m walking with you, then Mother isn’t pressing me on some other man whose wallet is bigger than his brain. And I wanted to see if I was right.”

“My wallet is bigger than my brain?” Bucky shrugged. It was fair; the earldom did, in fact, have enough money to even make that insinuation not particularly insulting.

“It’s no secret that I’m to marry for money. Eventually, I will have to put on a pleasant face and make nice to one of those idiots until he thinks it’s his own idea to ask for me. But I’m reasonably certain that, despite your lady mother’s maneuvering, you are entirely uninterested in matrimony of any sort. Am I right?”

“It’s no secret that a single young man in possession of a good fortune is in want of a wife,” Bucky quoted. “Eventually, I’ll have to. But I don’t think I’d be a particularly good husband. I don’t… want a spouse. Not from any that would have me. I’m not jaded enough, not yet, to let someone fill that role who has the potential to have so much more. Money is well enough, I suppose. But-- love is not a thing to throw away, if you don’t have to.”

“Ah, and there it is: your fatal flaw. You’re a romantic. And in love.”

“So obvious,” Bucky said. “There goes my chance to be brooding and mysterious.”

“Just as well,” Jessica said. “Brooding and mysterious is _so_ last-Season.”

“I thought brooding never went out of style, provided one had dark hair. The fair-headed among us are not allowed to be brooding,” Bucky said. “So, you and I should be entitled.”

“Ladies do not _brood_ ,” Jessica informed him tartly. “We _languish_. Sometimes, if the weather is right, we _pine_.”

“And are you pining? Seems only fair to tell me, as you sussed out my secret without barely even trying,” Bucky mused. 

“Not yet. I suppose once I’m wed, I might pine for simpler days.”

Bucky chuckled. “Ah, look, the exit to the maze, and we did not even get lost. I’m disappointed. But, allow me to return you promptly to your mother, so she does not have expectations of either of us that will not bear fruit. Shall we?”

“Yes, thank you, Lord Barnes. You’re too kind.”

Bucky made a noncommittal sort of noise. He supposed if he had to marry --- and he would, eventually -- Miss Jones wouldn’t be a terrible choice. She’d keep him mildly entertained at society events, and wouldn’t expect anything of him. Three years, he told himself. If she was still husband hunting in three years, he would seek out her company. But not until she had her own chance to fall in love, to find someone suitable.

Better to have loved and lost…

* * *

Tony arrived at Lehnsherr’s residence carefully several minutes late, so as not to seem too eager. He had a bottle of moderately-priced wine under his arm and an expectation that the entire evening would be stultifyingly dull. But he needed the contacts that Lehnsherr could give him. At least the man had finally come through with the shipment of steel.

Tony plastered on the expression that was quickly becoming a habitual mask, a slightly amused smile and a somewhat vague stare, and knocked.

In an English household, the butler would have answered the door, taken Tony’s card, sneered over it, and allowed him to join the other gentlemen in the parlor. Assuming, of course, that the butler let him in at all. With no title or lands to his name, Tony was just another mushroomer, a social climber with a wallet.

Instead, the door was answered by a pretty girl with mahogany hair and green eyes wearing a red dress that was cut a little low, and nipped in to show off a narrow waist. “Good evening,” she said, waving him in. “Father and the rest of the men are playing billiards. Or cards. Or smoking. Horrible thing, that. I’m Miss Maximoff, and my brother is supposed to be answering the door, but he got into a conversation and dumped it on me. Come _in_ , don’t just stand there like you’re waiting for the weather to change.”

“My pardons,” Tony said, twisting past her and into the hall. “Charmed to make your acquaintance.” He racked his brain, trying to recall who Maximoff was; Lehnsherr had dozens of contacts and business partners, and was forever dropping their names, but Tony couldn’t place a Maximoff. “If you could just show me the way?”

“This way, then,” she said, grabbing a handful of her skirts and practically skipping. “You must be the notorious Mr. Stark, all the way from England. Father’s been gossiping. Of course, he doesn't call it gossiping when he does it, it’s only gossip if _I_ do it. He’s discussing business.”

Tony chuckled. “That does seem to be the way of things. Dare I wonder what sort of _business_ your father has been saying of me that I’m so immediately notorious?”

"Oh, not just Father," she said. " _Everyone_. There's stories in the papers and I even have a few of the inked portraits there's been. A whole scrapbook in my collection."

“I’m sorry, what?”

"My best friend is covering a screen with your likeness," Miss Maximoff continued. "She'll be so envious that I made your acquaintance first. I can hardly wait to tell her so."

That was... something of a surprise. Tony had known he’d been a bit of a sensation when they’d arrived with their pirate treasure -- three different papers had interviewed both him and Rhodes before Rhodes had shaken Tony’s hand and gone back to sea with promises to stay in touch.

Indeed, Tony had counted on that small burst of fame to gain his audience with the bank for his loan. But he would have thought that the interest would have died down, by now. He made a mental note to pay more attention to the things Harley told him on returning from a trip to the park. “That’s... very flattering, Miss.”

"It's exciting, that's what it is," Miss Maximoff said. "Father said he didn't believe a word of it, and he wasn't going to sell ingots to a tosser, but then you actually met him. He says you're very clever, in fact. Still. He's not so sure about the pirates. You'll have to tell the story after dinner, we'd love to hear it from the man himself."

“Well, if the opening presents itself,” Tony hedged, and then the rest of what she’d said registered. He’d only bought ingots from one man. “Wait -- you’re _Lehnsherr_ ’s daughter?” Good lord, how had that gnarled old stick of a man managed to produce such a lovely child?

"Well, I see that you have not been paying attention to gossip, even if you're one of the main subjects. But as not to tangle your tongue, yes, my twin and I are Erik Lensherr's children. By his mistress. Our mother passed on last year, and Father decided to take us in and civilize us. It's a work in progress.”

Well, that explained some of the less polished aspects of Miss Maximoff’s behavior. Tony wondered how Lensherr’s spouse felt about the situation, but it would be rude to ask. “I'm sorry for your loss. But it is a worthy work, indeed, and quite well underway, I should say. You’ve been all things delightful.” 

"You are either a very good liar, or you haven't got any sense," Miss Maximoff said. "In either case, feel free to continue."

Tony laughed. “Sometimes I’m not certain which it is, myself. Alas, I must go in and greet your father and his other guests. But I quite look forward to speaking with you again.”

"Oh, yes," she said. "You'll do just fine." She laughed, obviously amused, and patted his arm. "Here you are, safe and sound, and able to pursue all sorts of _manly_ entertainment. I'll be waiting for you at dinner."

Tony wondered what she meant by that, but -- well, he was a fresh face with interesting stories to tell. Dining with her father’s business associates must be even more dull for her than it would be for Tony. “I thank you for your care, Miss Maximoff. I will see you at dinner.” He gave her a nod, then pushed open the door to Lehnsherr’s study.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony stood at the top of the gangplank and looked down at the wharf, bustling with workers moving crates and sailors heading for their leave and people looking for their families.

The crossing had been much smoother, coming back to London, than it had been, leaving. But Tony wasn’t sure he felt much better about it. He hadn’t been this close to Bucky in more than two years. He wanted to seek Bucky out, to demand to know why Bucky hadn’t come to help him. He wanted to show Bucky how well he’d done. He wanted to fall into Bucky’s arms.

He didn’t want anything to do with Bucky whatsoever.

All of those things were true at once, and it was giving Tony a headache.

Maybe, if he were lucky, Earl Brooklyn would have moved the family out of the city and gone back to their estate. It was possible, right?

"How quaint," Wanda said, putting her hand on Tony's arm. "It looks just like the pictures from a fairy tale book. Is that London Bridge? Is it falling down?" She squealed, practically dancing in place.

Tony smiled indulgently and pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow. “I’d hope not,” he said. “We have to cross it to get to our lodgings. Speaking of which, where’s your chaperone?” They’d only been engaged a few months.

It had been Lehnsherr’s suggestion, actually, in that roundabout way of his. Tony was no fool; he knew Lehnsherr was just trying to hitch himself to Tony’s swiftly-rising star. But Tony was reaching a level of success that all but dictated he have a spouse, someone to keep the house and help him entertain. And while he didn’t think he’d ever trust himself to love again, not the sweeping, whole-hearted way he’d loved Bucky, he was fond enough of Wanda.

"Because _God forbid_ I stand at the rail of a ship with my betrothed without someone disapproving… he's below. Getting close to shore made him all seasick again."

“I’m not worried about standing on the deck of the ship,” Tony said. “I don’t want tongues wagging when we arrive at our lodgings.” He caught up her hand and lightly kissed her fingers. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer because of a misunderstanding.”

"Don't be ridiculous," Wanda said. "We're ridiculously wealthy. No one will misunderstand anything."

Tony chucked, though it didn’t have much humor in it. “In England, the ridiculously wealthy are given _more_ scrutiny, not less. Wait here; I’ll go and fetch your brother.”

He made his way back belowdecks, to the comfortable stateroom which had been Wanda and Pietro’s for the journey, and knocked. “I’d think you would want to get off the boat faster,” he observed.

"Seen enough, can we go home now?" Pietro groaned. "What. Didn't you see that coming?" Pietro staggered out of the room, more than a little green around the gills. His hair, silver blonde, just made him look more pale.

Tony grinned and picked up Pietro’s valise. “Come on, let’s get you back on dry land. Besides, you don’t want to go back home yet; it would mean another three weeks on the ship.”

“Right now, I’m used to being seasick,” Pietro complained. “You’re just going to get me accustomed to not throwing up all the time. Look at me, I’ve never been more slender! This is great.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Come on; your sister is waiting for us.”

“No, she’s not,” Pietro said. “Wanda never waited for anyone in her life, ever.”

“Well, then she’s gotten a good head start on us and will likely reach the hotel before us and pick the best room.”

“I just want one where the floor is not moving,” Pietro said. He burped, alarmingly, and then, finally, followed Tony off the ship. “Hotel… don’t you have a house here, or were you just born on a pirate ship?”

Tony hummed. “I left under somewhat strained circumstances. I don’t think I’d be welcome.” Though the thought of watching Pietro and Wanda try to get comfortable in his old cell of a room was an amusing one.

Pietro was right -- Wanda was no longer on the ship, but she hadn’t gone too far, being absorbed in peering in through the windows of one of the warehouses. “They’ve got silks in there, Mr. Stark. Red and green and all sorts of colors, just on _bolts_. More silks than I have ever seen!”

“I can see our first errand after we’ve settled will be to find a dressmaker for you. How did you think silk was shipped?”

“Well, when you say it _that_ way,” Wanda scolded him. “I wonder if the word ship came from the boats first, or the activity. I always wonder about things like that. Like, do you see the same color when you look at silk that’s red as I see? It’s curious, don’t you think?”

Pietro grumbled. “One day, she’s going to actually think rational thoughts, like she’s all grown up.”

“One day, you’ll grow up enough not to care what your sister thinks,” Tony teased. “Come on; I want to change and have a drink before dinner.”

“I’m not sure Pietro thinks at all,” Wanda said. “And yes, dinner and a little bit of sherry would be just lovely. And tomorrow, I want to walk around Hyde Park. I’ve heard so much about it, it’ll be just delightful.”

“Hyde Park,” Tony repeated dutifully. “And a dressmaker.” He cast an amused eye at Pietro. “And you, what would you like to do?”

“Races,” Pietro said, decidedly. “And I’ve heard there are some ruthless gaming dens in London, where the play runs deep.”

“Do not gamble all our fortune away,” Wanda sniffed.

“He’s on a stipend,” Tony reassured her. “We’ll find you something. I was never one for gambling, before, so I don’t know where to find them, but I’m sure the concierge will be of service.”

“What is this nonsense?” Wanda demanded, suddenly, pointing to a notice tacked on the wall of one of the warehouses. _White Wolf and Black Panther, rematch?_

Tony leaned over to study it. “I’m not entirely certain. Boxing, perhaps.”

“That would be interesting,” Wanda said. “Do they let ladies go to sporting events? I thought Father said I’d be quite contained, and therefore, _very bored_.”

Tony thought Erik Lehnsherr had been hoping to dissuade his daughter from making the trip. “Ladies certainly attend all sorts of respectable events. We shall make inquiries.”

The hotel, when they finally made it there, was nice enough, and the owner didn’t care about the polish on one’s title, but only the fatness of a wallet. They had a nice little set of rooms, three bedrooms, a private dining room, and a parlor for entertaining guests, should they have any. And, of course, the common dining room and parlors were available, with a little notice.

Wanda went immediately into her room to look out the window, complain about the view, and made Pietro switch with her, even though his was the same view, just five feet further down the wall.

Tony shook his head -- the twins weren’t children, but sometimes they certainly acted like it. He went into his own room, gratefully shedding his traveling coat and untying his cravat. His own view drew him to the window, and he found himself leaning against the frame, noting familiar streets and buildings with a pang of loss.

Fourteen blocks, Tony knew. From the hotel, counting streets. He could be at the Barnes’ door, giving his card to the butler, in an hour. Less if he walked quickly, and even less than that if he took a hack. Well, maybe. Vehicle traffic was often slower. 

The Earl had several carriages, but if the Countess forgot something on the way to a ball, she’d send her page to run back to the house for it, and Harley had often beat the carriage to the other house.

Tony shook his head, shaking off the memory. He wasn’t going to call on the Earl. Or Bucky. No matter how well Tony had done for himself, the Earl would still despise him as a commoner.

And Bucky... had rather clearly expressed his position.

No. Tony would conduct the business he’d come to conduct. He would show his fiancée and her brother around, take them to see the sights. They would buy outrageous gifts for the family and friends they’d left in New York, and order clothes in the latest fashions so they’d be at the head of the curve when they went back.

And Tony would forget about Bucky.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Tony couldn’t help but be a little melancholy. Morose. Wanda noticed, but in her own, charming way, attempted to jolly him out of his mood rather than asking about it.

“Why is English food all these little wiggly things,” she wondered, poking a rissole with her fork. “Can’t they just carve off a bit of beef and have it with gravy and a potato, like _normal people_? This looks like a little bun, but tastes like pork.” 

“Normal people do eat that way,” Tony said. “But this is how _society_ eats, here. The fussier your food is, the more you’re obviously paying your cook.”

“Well, that’s silly,” Wanda said. “Your food should _taste_ good. Art is for the wall.”

“Eat your wiggly bits and just think, you can tell Kitty Pryde all about it when you get home, how you ate things that were all jellylike,” Pietro teased her, shaking something off the end of his fork at her.

Tony watched them squabbling and let it tease a smile out of his face. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to actually love Wanda, but she was terribly charming. “Perhaps the pudding will make up for the main course,” he suggested.

When the servants came out to clear the course away, one of the women -- either very daring, or very used to Americans -- said “I heard the young miss say she wished for entertainment. There’s a public ball day after tomorrow, here. You’d be more than welcome.”

“Oh, a dance, can we, Mr. Stark, please?” Wanda put her hands together and batted her eyelashes at him.

Tony patted her hand. “You know I can’t resist when you do that,” he mock-chided. “But it means we’ll want to stop at the dressmaker first thing in the morning. I doubt we can have a whole new dress made in two days, but they should be able to put some polish on something you’ve brought along.” He tipped his head at Pietro. “What about you? Will you attend?”

“Why not? Father wants me to find a respectable bride, and thinks American ladies aren’t respectable. Present company _especially_ included.”

“Now, children,” Tony chided gently. “Do me the favor of at least pretending we are civilized people.” He turned a smile on the serving girl. “Thank you, miss; we’ll look forward to it.”

Wanda squealed with delight, then was even more enthused when the pudding course came out, a treacle-sweet tart with whipped cream, of which she ate all of her serving and then stole a few bites of Tony’s.

Dinner over, Tony wrote two letters of business to be delivered, reminders of appointments, and arranged a tour of a smelting facility here in London. 

He wasn’t going to sleep, not likely, at least, and he might as well get work done.

Somewhat after midnight, there was a soft rap at his door.

He looked at the door, frowning, then carefully closed the lid on the inkpot before making his way across the room to open it. “Yes, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Wanda said. “Or at least nothing for me, but you’re still awake, and-- well, you didn’t quite seem yourself. Father said I was supposed to take care of you, like families do. So, what’s wrong?”

Such a sweet girl, Tony thought. A bit spoiled, but good-hearted, underneath. “Nothing,” he said. “Or, at least, nothing that should matter. I’m just a bit... nostalgic, I suppose.” That wasn’t quite the word, but it was near enough. “I’d gotten over feeling homesick for London, mostly, but being back here.. Well. It’s stirring up old memories and feelings, a bit. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“All right,” she said. “If you want--” She held up a novel. “--I could read to you, get your mind all settled out, so you can sleep.”

Tony glanced at the title and barely suppressed a snort. “Very kind of you, my dear,” he said carefully, “but I doubt that will quite take my mind off things.” It was a romance, of course, probably something racy that she’d snuck past her father or traded one of their shipmates for.

She tipped the book to study the front cover, as if reminding herself what it was. “Well, you’re already engaged to me, so I don’t think it will give you any new thoughts--” She hitched a breath and then-- “Did you run away from London to escape an old _lover_?” She sounded thrilled, like Tony had just given her a delicious piece of gossip.

“Not... quite. But not entirely off the mark, either,” Tony admitted. “Does it trouble you?” He doubted it did; she’d never seemed the jealous sort before.

“Only if she’s prettier than me,” Wanda said, primping her hair a little. It wasn’t the first time Tony had seen her with her hair down -- American women were a little less formal -- but it was still rare. And beautiful, thick and rich with just a hint of curl.

“He,” Tony corrected. “And no one could compare to your beauty.” Bucky’s beauty had been of a different sort, anyway.

“Then, no, I don’t mind,” Wanda said. “As long as I’m the best, that’s all I need to be.”

* * *

Bucky sighed. He didn’t quite roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “It’s not like that, Mother,” he said. “I’m only trying to repay the Prince and his sister for their many kindnesses. If society would stop looking with such narrow eyes, I wouldn’t have to accompany them to a ball, and merely greet them there. Perhaps you could have a word with Lady Thurston.”

The Countess looked down her nose at him, which was quite a feat considering how much shorter than Bucky she was. “You know very well that won’t do any good at all. I know you’re grateful to your friends for all they’ve done for you,” she added, conciliatory, “but _really_ , James. A _public ball_. You might be pressed to mingle with _anyone_ at one of those things.”

“What’s even more horrific,” Bucky said, “is that they might have to talk _to me_. Or dance. It’s not like anyone at Lady Thurston’s parties will accept an invitation to waltz.” That wasn’t entirely true. Miss Jessica Jones danced with him, still routinely nudged by her mother. She wasn’t a bad sort, and they joked sometimes about getting married, if only to get their families to stop _bothering_ them about it. But the eligibles were growing up to be a squeamish lot, and Bucky’s bronze and steel arm was proving a hell of a deterrent.

Bucky’s mother fanned herself. “The _waltz_ ,” she said, fluttering, “I should hope not! Is that what they’re playing at these public balls? I should have words with someone!”

“What, only the _beau monde_ can be scandalous? Mother, really,” Bucky said. Maybe he would find someone to dance with. And then, perhaps, later, to _dance_. The merchant class and lower lords’ daughters and sons were a little less formal, and more apt to do just what pleased them. Being untouched only mattered if you were planning to bring an heir into the picture.

“I’m only looking out for you, darling,” she said. “You know how your father gets about that sort of thing. Surely you don’t want to have to listen to another of his lectures.”

“So, we won’t tell him,” Bucky suggested. Honestly, he didn’t really care anymore. His father had said everything that needed to be said and Bucky didn’t even really hear him anymore. If the earl was disappointed, well, there was nothing Bucky could do about that. “It’s not as though he pays attention to the scandal papers.”

“Well, there are plenty who do,” she said tartly. “See that you stay _out_ of them.”

“It’ll be fine, Mother,” Bucky said. “I haven’t done anything scandalous in weeks. Everyone’s forgotten about me. Besides, Lord Storm will be there. If anyone will be in the papers tomorrow, it’s John Storm.”

She sighed. “That poor man’s sister. Lady Storm must be a saint in disguise.”

Privately, Bucky agreed. Or blind, deaf, and amazingly tolerant. “And I’m going out,” he said. “You wanted me to accept more invitations.”

“Those aren’t the invitations I meant, and you know it,” she scolded, and then hesitated. “James, are you... are you _courting_ the princess?” Her voice wobbled as if she couldn’t make up her mind at all how to feel about that possibility.

“Shuri would no more agree to marry me than the moon would,” Bucky said. “In fact, she’s far more likely to fall in love with the moon. Or something tiny that she looks at with her lens contraption. Don’t worry, Mother. I won’t make you bow to my spouse, just yet.”

Bucky’s mother sniffed. “Well, darling, you need to court _some_ one. And I very much doubt you’ll find them at a public ball.”

“I will,” Bucky promised. Someday. Maybe. When his heart stopped squeezing painfully every time he imagined a ringing laugh, when his chest didn’t ache with wanting to turn and comment about something to a smiling face. When he could dance and not remember all the times they’d waltzed in the stables, humming to music that they couldn’t hear. Someday. It had to happen eventually, right? And if not, he could probably ask Jessica Jones. She’d laugh at him, but she’d also probably say yes.

She patted him gently on the arm. “You know I only want you to be happy, James.”

“I know,” Bucky said. Because he did. She wanted him to be happy. And proper and respectable and in love with someone from a good family. Hell, at this point, Bucky would settle for being _not miserable_. He just wasn’t sure a spouse was going to do that for him. “Someday, I promise.”


	8. Chapter 8

A public assembly was, perhaps, not as fancy as the private balls hosted by the Ladies in their fancy manor houses that Bucky had told him about. But the whole place was alight with candles and the music was sweet and the punch was just a little tart.

The ladies and gentlemen might not dress as fashionably and their manners might not be la creme. But Tony wouldn't have known the difference and Wanda was gazing around in delight.

"Oooh, lemon tarts!" she noted, not quite darting at the buffet. They were still in line to be announced.

Tony snared her arm and tucked it snugly through his. “After we’re introduced,” he promised, “you can have all the tarts your heart desires.” His gaze swept the room, hope and dread warring in him, that he might spot someone he knew. “You will, I hope, reserve the first dance for me. And at least one more?”

“Of course,” Wanda said. “I’d dance with you all night, but I’m told that’s just _not done_. Even if we’re already engaged to be married and there’s nothing more hideous that can be done to you to punish you for monopolizing my time.”

“Dreadfully scandalous,” Tony agreed, amused. “Whatever would the world be coming to if affianced couples were actually fond of one another?”

“His highness, Prince T’challa of Wakanda,” the herald said. “And her highness, Princess Shuri of Wakanda.”

“Royalty,” Wanda said, blinking. “There’s royalty? Mr. Stark, I’m not dressed to _meet royalty_.”

“Who says they’re going to ask to be introduced to you?” Pietro murmured. “You’re only an American.”

Tony shot Pietro a quelling look -- not that the boy was ever actually quelled. “Americans don’t believe in royalty,” he reminded Wanda. “You’re dressed splendidly for the event; if their delicate sensibilities can’t stoop to cotton and linen instead of pure silk, then that’s their problem. Though it is very odd,” he added, stretching his neck a little to try to catch a glimpse of the royal pair. “No one of actual quality ought to be found at a public event like this. A landless or impoverished minor noble, perhaps, but...”

For just an instant, he saw the pair, dark-skinned and wearing brilliant orange, yellow, and green, looking like birds of paradise among the crows of darker clad Englishmen. And it must have been his imagination gone wild, because for a moment, he could have sworn the first man who bowed over the Princess's hand was dark haired, tall, narrow through the waist with broad shoulders.

Tony would have once said that he would have known Bucky from three inches of his elbow protruding past a doorframe, and something in his chest said it _had to be him_.

“We’re next,” Pietro said, nudging Tony in the back.

“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Tony stepped forward to give the herald their names and titles, and when he looked around again, the man was gone. _Imagining things,_ he accused himself. _Fool_.

They made their way into the ballroom, the music lively. Wanda was already smiling at him, for Tony to claim his dance, eager to show off her skill. She was, in fact, a very good dancer, light on her feet and very graceful. 

By the time their first dance was done, several young men and even a couple of young women were converging on them to beg Wanda for a space on her card. Tony scrawled his name on another dance, partway through the evening, and brought Wanda to the refreshments table so she could have the promised lemon tart while she chose her next partner. “There, I knew you’d be quite popular,” he murmured as he pressed a cup of punch into her hands.

“Pardon me, Mr.-- Stark, is it?” someone said. “The Prince would very much like to make your acquaintance. He understands you're somewhat of a technical marvel, in the colonies. If I might be so bold as to introduce myself, I’m Everett Ross, the Prince’s liaison.”

Tony took the offered hand. Ross’ grip was firm but not challenging. “My pleasure, Mr. Ross -- or is it Lord Ross? Forgive me; I’ve been in America long enough to have traded our etiquette for theirs.”

“Mr. Ross, please,” he said. “Although Shuri-- or, the Princess, as you would, has recently named me Baron of the Front Stoop. She has a curious sense of humor.”

Tony chuckled. “A baronetcy, even a very small one, is not to be scorned,” he joked. “Excuse me only one moment--” He turned to Wanda and pressed her hand between his. “Will you excuse me, my dear? The prince, it seems, wishes to hear of my engines. Perhaps I can contrive to introduce you, later?”

Wanda leaned in close. “If you get the Prince to offer me a dance, I’ll be so far in your debt-- _imagine_!”

“Thanks so much for your time,” Ross said. “His highness awaits.”

“There; I have secured my lady’s permission, and can follow you with a clean conscience,” Tony said. “Lead on, Mr. Ross.”

The Prince was a tall man with a fierce beard and a ready smile, wearing a great deal of oddly silver jewelry that was not, Tony thought, silver at all. He made a formal gesture, nothing like a bow or a nod, but crossed his arms briefly over his chest. “It is my honor to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stark. Rumor has spoken much of you, and I wished to see if the man lived up to the legend. Indulge me, if you would.”

“The honor is mine,” Tony said. Americans, he had been told, did not _bow_ to foreign nobility, but he managed a compromise in a deep nod. “My time is yours, at least until my fiancée comes to claim me for my dance.”

“Likewise, my sister is off entertaining herself by seeing how insulting she can be before anyone notices,” the Prince said. “My given name is T’challa, son of T’chaka. You may use this in your address to me. I get weary being called _your highness_ all the time. I am only as high as the average man.”

“Perhaps _somewhat_ higher,” Tony said, lifting a hand to measure his own height against the prince’s, smiling. “What rumors have most piqued your curiosity?”

“Mostly that you’ve reinforced your track, allowing engines and cars to move faster, with greater cargo capacity. How did you manage such a feat? I hope to have the entirety of Wakanda laid with track inside the next fifteen years. Such a transportation network would be a boon.”

“Ah, that.” Tony warmed to the subject. “It has to do with the steel. I’m quite exacting about the ratio of iron to carbon. Combined with changes I’ve made to the fabrication process, it results in a rail that is actually somewhat _less_ rigid, and therefore more able to withstand greater stresses, as it bows ever so slightly to absorb the shock.”

“I would be grateful, if, perhaps, you would be willing to consult on the project team,” the Prince said. “I know, speaking of business at a pleasure event is not, perhaps, proper.”

“I should be delighted,” Tony said. “My primary purpose in coming to London is business; I am here, tonight, primarily to indulge my fiancée. But it would be easier to discuss such matters in more sober surroundings. If you have a card, I will endeavor to call on you at your convenience.”

“Certainly,” T’challa said. “And here comes my sister with her dance partner. Thank you, Lord Barnes, for keeping her entertained for even a moment.”

Tony’s whole body locked up at the name, and it was only with the greatest effort that he was able to turn his head and--

Bucky. It _had_ been Bucky that he’d seen, after all.

Because of course it was.

For just a moment, Bucky’s mouth dropped open, a flash of some emotion in those blue eyes, too fast for Tony to be able to interpret it. “To-- er, too right, your highness,” he said, as if he’d merely lost his train of thought and hadn’t noticed Tony at all. “As always, an honor and a delight.”

“He tells such lies, brother, I don’t know how to manage him,” the Princess said. “Oh, and who’s your friend? Don’t stand on ceremony. Bast knows I do not. I’m Shuri, it’s wonderful to meet you, and you are-- oh, nevermind, go dance with Lord Barnes before he can lie straight up to my brother and say such ridiculous charming things.”

_Don’t, don’t make a scene, don’t embarrass yourself,_ Tony chided himself. He had to catch his breath, though, before pressing his mouth into something like a polite smile. “Only if his lordship wishes.” There, that was diplomatic enough, without giving away his warring urges to throw himself into Bucky’s arms or else punch Bucky right in the face.

“I wouldn’t dream of depriving Shuri of the opportunity to tell her side of the story, before I face her brother’s wrath,” Bucky said, and he offered Tony a hand. His _left_ hand, which was entirely improper.

Tony hesitated -- but what else could he do? He put his hand in Bucky’s, and then paused again, looking down at it.

Bucky hand was unusually hard, heavy, and unmoving, underneath the glove. “Pay it no mind,” Bucky said, his voice tense, nearly as hard as those fingers. “Things have changed since you left.”

“No doubt,” Tony murmured. “It is the nature of things to change, I’ve found.” He let Bucky lead him onto the floor. How many times had he dreamed of being able to do this, clasp Bucky’s hands and dance together, for all the world to see?

He had never imagined it being so awkward. He cast about for something vaguely appropriate to say, because if he didn’t carefully choose his words, he was going to demand to know why Bucky had abandoned him, and that would be terribly naive. “You seem close to them.”

“Shuri and her brother have become especially dear,” Bucky replied. “Although things have not changed so much that I no longer have companions of whom the Earl disapproves.” Bucky drew Tony toward the sideline, to await the next song. Which, when it began, was of course a waltz. Bucky actually raised his head and laughed at that, although it was not the light, carefree laugh that Tony remembered, but something cynical and bitter. “Mother would probably faint from shock, given the circumstances. Shall I lead?”

“Certainly,” Tony agreed. Bucky outranked him, and was taller besides. “I would not have expected to see you here,” he admitted.

“My mother can’t decide if she’s delighted, or horrified, by the idea that I might be courting the Princess. But I would not have them attend, completely friendless.”

Half a dozen responses leapt to Tony’s tongue, ranging from the warm ( _You were always a good friend_ ) to the bitter ( _And where were you when I needed a friend?_ ). He settled for, “That’s good of you,” though he had to chew the words down into pulp to get them out. He should say something. Polite conversation. Small talk. He’d become quite good at it over the last year, but every gambit he’d learned seemed to have flown from his mind entirely. “The prince has asked me to consult on a project of his,” he said inanely.

“Has he?” Bucky sounded surprised. “T’challa is a connoisseur, you might say, of the excellent and the refined. If he requires your aid, you’ve earned special recognition. You’ve done well for yourself, then. Good, I’m-- I’m glad to hear it.”

_Are you?_ Tony wanted to demand, hungry as he’d ever been for Bucky’s approval and praise. He swallowed it down. “New York has been good to me,” he said. “However difficult the journey was.”

“Certainly much better than I,” Bucky said. “Look at you-- I never… you look well. I’m happy for you. Truly. And I-- won’t mention to the Earl that I saw you.”

“That would be for the best. I very much doubt he would take kindly to word of my presence on this side of the ocean.” Had things gone as the Earl had planned, Tony would still be in the midst of his indenture, somewhere in Australia. “I hope you won’t mind if I mention the meeting to Harley, when I write home. He was furious that he couldn’t come.” He would be even more furious to learn that Tony hadn’t given Bucky the cut direct.

“He’s still with you?” Bucky sounded surprised. “That’s wonderful, I’m-- I’m glad to hear that he’s well and safe. I was concerned. Mother raged for days about her favorite page. There--” Bucky coughed, turning his head aside for a moment, swallowed as if there were a lump in his throat. “Some things of yours, and his. Were put aside-- I put them aside, in case I ever had a way to get them to you. If you’d like them.”

That... that made no sense. If Bucky had things of Tony’s and intended to give them back, why hadn’t he brought them to Tony at Newgate? Even if Bucky hadn’t been willing to risk his father’s ire and his inheritance to defend Tony’s innocence -- the transportees were allowed to take their own possessions with them, if they had any. Bucky had kept Tony’s things with him, and Tony had shipped out locked in the hold without even boots on his feet.

“I...” he fumbled, neatly missing his step in the dance. What could Bucky have of his that he’d actually want, anymore? But he didn’t know what trinkets Harley might have left behind and would be glad to see again. “Perhaps. Yes. If. Obviously, I can’t come to you, but if. If you’d rather not call, you could leave them with the prince, if you think he wouldn’t mind.”

“We’ve gotten to be friends, T’challa and I. Not something I would have predicted. If-- if you’d prefer that, he could act as our ambassador. But… I would call on you, if you’d allow it. I understand, completely, if you’d rather not see me again.” 

Well, at least Bucky had _some_ shame for having left Tony undefended. But Tony couldn’t bring himself to turn Bucky away. Being so close was like turning his face up to the sun after weeks of rain. “You’d be welcome,” Tony admitted. “I’m-- We’re staying here, actually, so I don’t expect you’ll need my direction.”

The music drew to a close, being both the longest six minutes of Tony’s life, and the fleetest. “Then I shall call, around eleven of the clock, if that would not be inconvenient, three days hence?”

Tony’s entire schedule had dried up and flown away; he had no idea if he was free in three days or closeted with a potential client. He didn’t care. He would move whatever meetings were scheduled, if he must. “In three days, then,” he said, reluctantly stepping back to make his bow.

Bucky seemed reluctant to let go of Tony, his fingers clenched down, and then, “ _Dammit_. I apologize. Please, don’t make a fuss, just walk with me a short ways-- it’s jammed. When we’re out of sight, I can fix it.”

“Of course,” Tony said. “Where would you-- behind those plants, there?” The potted trees would block off most of the room.

“Thank you, that will be fine,” Bucky said, and he bit the tip of his glove, tugging it off his right hand. “It gets caught, sometimes. I know it’s well oiled--” he said, none of which made any sense until he pushed his left sleeve up somewhat to reveal--

Not an arm. It was almost nothing like an arm at all, not flesh and blood, but dull, matte black with gold accents, like a piece of plate mail, intricately detailed and protective. Bucky twisted his wrist back and forth a few times, using his right hand to do it, and his left hand… clicked and wheezed like a tired train engine, a thousand times smaller.

“By the saints,” Tony breathed. “That’s _beautiful_. How does it--” He clenched his teeth down around the questions that wanted to come spilling out. “You... you lost the hand? I’m so very sorry.”

Bucky scowled at -- Tony? The hand? The fact that it was malfunctioning? Hard to tell. “Shuri made it for me. I lost the whole arm, just below the shoulder. I fell and landed under a carriage.” The words had a dull, often repeated sound to them, not like an event he was remembering, but something he’d memorized, or said so often that it no longer meant anything to him.

“God, that’s-- that must have been terrible. But you-- Shuri made it? The _princess?_ ” Tony glanced over his shoulder toward the ballroom, though the plants blocked most of his view. “If his own sister is an engineer of such skill, what would he need _me_ for?”

“Many things, I imagine,” Bucky said. “He has an entire country, more than one expert cannot hurt the issue. Here, hold this if you please.” He gave Tony his glove. His jacket apparently had been specially designed to take into account the artificial limb, as he unbuttoned the sleeve most of the way up. There was no shirt underneath, just a cuff that was apparently sewn into the lining of the jacket. “Ah, there, can you see, a thread’s caught in the plating. I don’t have a lot of movement, and what I do have is terribly delicate. Do you think you could--”

He twisted the arm a little to show Tony where a few black threads poked out, hard to see in the darkness, and against the black metal of the arm.

Tony had to bend close to see the way it wound around the precision-crafted joints. He couldn’t just yank it loose; it could damage something inside, or leave pieces behind to cause trouble later. Carefully, he began to unwind it from the edge it was caught on.

“There you are, Mr. Stark, I’ve been looking just all over for you! You really must tell me what the difference is between a marquise and a baron, I think I’ve offended someone,” Wanda chirped, then she came fully around the plant and hitched in a breath. “Well, I _never_ \--”

Tony looked up in shock and was suddenly aware of just how they looked, Bucky with his jacket half-off and Tony bent close over him.

“Wa-- Miss Maximoff,” Tony said, panic ringing alarms in his ears. “Allow. Allow me to introduce you to Lord Barnes. He’s having some difficulty with his arm--”

“So I see,” she said, her voice a little high-pitched. Not quite hysterical, and certainly nothing like the fit he’d witnessed when Pietro had pranked her by smearing jelly on the inside of her bedcovers, but decidedly not _calm_. “I must be interrupting, terribly sorry.” 

“No, no, not at all,” Tony said. “Come, stay here just a moment while I fix this and then you shall have all of my attention.”

Bucky flushed, dark and obviously uncomfortable. “I was not-- yet. Prepared to go. I had hoped Ton-- er, Mr. Stark could set things right quickly enough.”

Tony tugged Bucky’s arm out a little further, hoping Wanda would take note of it, understand what was happening. He pulled at the errant thread somewhat frantically, and finally it came loose. “There. Now you can--” He waved at Bucky’s jacket.

“Yes, of course,” Bucky said, buttoning his jacket hastily, concealing the arm. “I did not intend to expose young persons to such an unsightly thing. If you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, Miss… Maximoff?”

“Yes,” she said, crisply, her eyebrow going up. “I’m not a child, you know, to be horrified. Feel free to continue _excusing yourself_ , however. I came to see if my betrothed wanted to claim his next dance.”

If Tony hadn’t been standing right next to Bucky, he might have missed the way Bucky’s breath hitched, the way he stopped moving entirely for a few seconds, as if frozen. The way he struggled, for a moment, to control his expression. “Yes, yes, of course, have a delightful evening.”

“My regards to the prince and the princess,” Tony threw out as Bucky hastily retreated, desperate to make this all seem normal and easy. “Did you say it was my dance, my dear? How fortuitous.”

Wanda waited until Bucky was gone from sight, before turning her attention to Tony. “Is it?” 

“Of course. You know how much I enjoy dancing with you.” Tony sternly forbade himself from looking in the direction Bucky had gone, to see if Bucky was still within sight. “May I?”

“You may as well,” she said. She held out her hand, waiting for him to take it.

Which was when Tony realized he was still holding Bucky’s glove, like some sort of token. “Oh, damn. He left his... Well, I’ll return it to him if I should see him again.” He folded it and put it in his coat pocket, then reached for Wanda’s hand, hoping that had come out as casually as he’d intended it. Nothing to hide. Why would there be?

Wanda didn’t say anything -- at all -- during the first few passes of the dance. Which was a bad sign, really. Tony knew very few people who actually talked nearly as much as he did, himself, and Wanda was one of them. Finally, when they were standing across each other at the head of the set, she wrinkled her nose, then said, “You knew that lord. Who is he?”

“James Barnes,” Tony supplied. “Heir to the Earl of Brooklyn. I... worked for the Earl, for a time; Lord Barnes and I were friendly.”

“Yes, you seemed _very friendly_ ,” Wanda observed.

A blush heated Tony’s neck, and he could only hope that the collar of his coat hid it. “His false arm was stuck; I was fixing it.”

“False arm,” Wanda repeated, as if a thought had occurred to her. “Did you know the pugilist called White Wolf is said to have a false arm, as well? I wonder if that makes fighting quite difficult for him.”

“I should think so.” Tony considered it. “Though if this White Wolf’s arm is only false below the elbow, it could be a great asset, as well. Where did you hear such a thing?”

“It’s all the talk,” Wanda said. “This great rematch. The first match was called on account of the boxing club being struck by lightning. I heard near half the audience was burned in the subsequent fire. It’s quite the sensation.”

“Good heavens,” Tony said. “That sounds dreadful. Do you suppose that’s how the White Wolf lost his arm?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “No one seems to know. But this rematch is all the talk. There are huge bets on the winners, and the talk is, they’re going to hold the match at Vauxhall, to be able to contain the whole audience. It sounds very exciting.”

And Tony had, if not actually misstepped, then certainly given the appearance of a grave misstep, and so she was owed. “I will do my best to procure tickets for us,” he promised.

“That would do very well,” Wanda said. The dance ended and she moved just a little closer to him than propriety strictly allowed. “Father would be very upset with us, you know, if plans didn’t… go forward.” She turned her face up to look at him, asking without saying the words. _We are going forward, right?_

Tony clasped her hands in his. “I have no reason to believe there is anything to disrupt our plans,” he promised. Bucky had chosen to leave Tony behind, after all, and Tony’s unruly feelings had nothing to do with that.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” Wanda said. “He’s very handsome. If you were taken with him, I wouldn’t blame you. Enough to turn anyone’s head.”

“He is, rather,” Tony agreed. “But you’re still the most lovely lady in the room.”

“It’s sort of a tragic beauty,” she said, looking around the room. “Like Lord Byron. Like… someone who has suffered. Who suffers still, and it’s left a sort of mark on them. Don’t you think?”

She really was almost ridiculously fanciful. “Well, I imagine losing an arm would do that to a man,” Tony offered, and smiled a little at the glare she shot at him for ruining her moment of tragic romance.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Perhaps. I’ll ask around. Surely someone will know if he’s a broken-heart in his history.”

“You... do that.” He was fairly certain that she wouldn’t learn that Bucky had been Tony’s lost lover, not from general gossip. And he had to admit, he was curious about whether Bucky had replaced him, and with whom. The question burned in his gut, squirming and uncomfortable.

“I will,” she said, enthusiastic. “And it’s my next dance, if you’d be so kind as to excuse me.”

“Of course.” Tony lifted her hand and brushed a light kiss over her fingers. “Do enjoy yourself, my dear.”

Wanda gave him a sharp, searching look, and then, apparently satisfied with what she saw, turned and walked over to where her next partner awaited her.

Tony, free now to look around the room, didn’t see Bucky anywhere. Not that he was, in fact, specifically looking for the man.

He was just... looking.


	9. Chapter 9

The public gardens just two blocks over from the inn were nice this time of year. Or, so Bucky’s confused and anxious brain told him. They might not necessarily have been so nice at night, in the dark, when there was a bit of drizzle in the air. Because of course there was. It was London, it was spring, and he was suffering the shock of a recently rebroken heart. It would have been ludicrous if the weather had been perfect.

Bucky found a stone bench and threw himself down on it, ignoring the clunk as his metal wrist hit the seat. “Jesus,” he said. He was grateful, obscurely, for his mother, and for every tutor who’d smacked his hand and yelled at him until manners and polite behavior were so thoroughly ingrained in his behavior that he could no more have been rude to anyone at a society function than he could have flown to the moon. It was all that kept the night from being an utter disaster, that Bucky had been able to converse with Tony without causing a scene.

“This seems an odd place to stop and take in the view,” Shuri said, feet crunching lightly on the raked path. She folded elegantly onto the bench beside him and looked around. “No, I do not understand the appeal. You will have to explain it to me.”

“The appeal is there is darkness, and a distinct lack of anyone around who wishes to speak to me, or spy on me, or comment about me later to their lady’s maid. Present company excluded, of course, Princess. You could never fail to be anything besides utterly delightful.” Also, without bothering to mention, Shuri was probably one of the only unmarried eligibles who could, in fact, follow him to a darkened park and sit there, entirely alone, without risking her reputation, ruin, and lack of prospects. 

“Well, of course. I am delightful, always,” she said easily. “Did that man say something to upset you? I will knock him down and step on him. Or trip him into the punch bowl.”

Bucky opened his mouth and a lot of nothing came out. _Of course_ Tony had upset him, but not in a way that deserved petty revenge, as amusing as it might be to watch the tiny princess face down a gentleman thief. “No,” he said, finally, rather thinking she would notice the pause, and he was not disappointed.

“You are saying no because you do not wish for me to demonstrate my prowess in front of London society who might talk about me,” she suggested. “As if I could care what anyone _here_ thinks of me. At least tell me what happened.”

“Your prowess is not for the jaded eyes of London,” Bucky soothed her. “Save it for those more deserving. And nothing-- happened.” Everything happened. But a long time ago. “I was not expecting to see him. It surprised me.”

Shuri clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You know that I will have the tale out of you eventually. But if you wish to wait and make me drag it out of you later, that is your decision.”

“I know,” Bucky said. He heaved a sigh. “Everywhere I go, I am put upon by determined females who want me to tell them what is wrong. You. Miss Jones. My mother. Some things just can’t be fixed, not with smoked steel and vibranium, not with chocolate cake, and certainly not with a tonic. Some things are just broken. And we put it aside and try not to notice.” He gave Shuri a long look, and then sighed again. “You should be careful of him.”

“I am careful of everyone. Why him, in particular.”

“He’s charming, and very smart, and-- soon you’ll find yourself liking him, very much,” Bucky said. “You’ll give him gifts, and want to make things better. And then you find out, he didn’t care about you as much as you thought, and you’re missing some books, a few jewels, and your favorite horse. I would have given all of those things to him, if he’d just asked.”

“Ahh,” Shuri sighed. “A broken heart is, as you say, difficult to repair. I am surprised he had the nerve to return to London. But perhaps he did not mean to see you. And yet, you danced with him.” She said it calmly, matter-of-fact.

“I could make excuses -- I didn’t want to make a scene, or embarrass you. I wished a moment to speak with him privately, that I might ascertain his motives. But truth is, in that exact moment, I would have given everything I had to dance with him. Just once, at a real ball. To pretend, just for those few minutes, that he was mine.”

“And so you did,” Shuri observed. “And it did not cost you anything, aside from another crack in your heart. Was it worth it?”

“Yes.” Because that was true, and because Bucky was going to willingly throw himself into the fire, let himself be burned to ashes, just for a moment to talk with him in a few days. If Tony was even there. If he were truly a cunning thief, he would make his escape tonight and not risk Bucky recovering from surprise enough to be a hazard. “Although admittedly, I wish my fall sometimes had taken all my memories with it, as well as my arm. Perhaps if I had to start over, I wouldn’t make such terrible mistakes.”

“Is it truly so terrible?” she wondered. “If you love him still, why not marry him and be done?”

Bucky almost laughed. Hadn’t that been how the whole thing had started, a desperation to marry? To have Tony, all the time, completely his own. “He won’t have me,” Bucky declared. 

“Is that what sent you out here, into the dark? You asked, and he refused you?”

“I asked him before,” Bucky confessed. “The Earl swore me to secrecy, that he would not have me tarnish my good name. Tony-- he was… a stableboy. Not even a house-servant. We… we were going to run away. Together. But he got his hands on my things, enough money to make a start somewhere else, and I guess he decided that my baggage was too heavy. He ran away, all right. And I haven’t seen him in near three years.”

Shuri was silent for several moments, which was unlike her. When Bucky looked over, she was staring into the middle distance, not really focused on anything, her brow furrowed. “If I had done such a thing,” she finally said slowly, carefully, “I would most certainly not come back, not anywhere near a place where I might be then arrested for theft and -- what is it that you English do with thieves? Hanging, or deporting them? My brother says that he is a very, very smart man. Why would a smart man place himself in the way of such danger?”

“Deporting, mostly,” Bucky said. “Used to be to the colonies, but, now, New Wales, mostly. There are more Irishmen living in the colonies than there are in Ireland itself these days. We have a hasty trade of ne’er-do-wells for tobacco and cotton, it seems.”

A dark thought occurred to him. “It could be you, and your brother. That’s a prize worth picking. Wakandans don’t even value gold as anything more than a decoration -- I know, I know, T’challa and I have had this discussion before about how gold is all but useless. Except that, to an Englishman, it’s not. It’s one of the most valuable things in the world, and it’s all over your home, just ripe for walking off with. It would be a tempting enough target to draw him out. If he really is a thief, and not a man who was desperate and afraid.”

“If he wants our gold, he is welcome to it.” She waved off the danger, and slanted him a look. “You think he was desperate and afraid?

“I don’t know,” Bucky said. “I don’t think-- the Earl thinks it was planned, that Tony deliberately courted my trust, my affection. For the purposes of robbing us. I don’t want to believe that. I think maybe it was an impulse. He had nothing, he was an orphan boy left in my father’s care; the illegitimate son of the Earl’s former estate manager. I think he might have looked at what he had, for the first time, and decided he could do better. Spur of the moment, not planned. Thinking I was the same as any other empty-headed young peer. That I’d forget about it, about him, when he was no longer right in front of me.”

“I think you should ask him,” Shuri said. “And then decide whether his excuse rings true. You thought, once, that he loved you. You love him still. It would be worth the effort, I think, to simply talk to the man.” She tipped her head, considering. “Or, if you prefer, have him arrested. But you must close this chapter one way or another.”

“I don’t want him arrested,” Bucky said. “If he’s moved on with his life, made a success out of himself, I don’t want to take that from him. The Earl said it was a small price to pay, to find out what kind of man he was. I think it was more telling what sort of man it proved me to be.”

“And what sort of man is that?”

“One who cannot do things by half-measures. I loved him once, I love him still. I-- don’t know that I’m capable of letting go of that. My whole heart, or none of it at all.”

Shuri sighed, a much deeper, more heartfelt sigh than a woman as young as she should be able to muster. “Talk to him,” she urged. “When you are done, whatever happens, T’challa and I will be here for you.”

“I know,” Bucky said, and he stretched across to pat her hand. “Much better friends than, truly, I deserve.”

* * *

Three days, Bucky had said, and Tony had woken that third morning already thinking about the possibility that he might see Bucky again.

He might not. Bucky might well have reconsidered and decided not to come. There was no way Tony was going to pursue him as far as the Earl’s townhouse, after all.

But he _might_ , and that possibility kept Tony feeling jittery and unsettled all through breakfast and an early appointment with a solicitor for a possible client. After luncheon, he’d given Wanda some money and sent her out with Pietro as her escort to do some shopping and amuse themselves for a few hours while he worked.

It wasn’t a lie; he took out his schematics and spread them over the desk, fully intending to work. But his thoughts refused to stay where he wanted them, straying over and over to the past, both the painful and the good.

At only a few minutes before eleven, there was a polite rap outside his hotel door. “Visitor for Mr. Stark, please?”

“Yes, I’ll be right down,” he called, snatching up his coat.

Bucky was downstairs, dressed sharply in a dark maroon coat and his hat held absently in one hand. “Thank you very much, you may go now,” he said to a boy, who deposited a trunk near the bench. He stood, seemed not entirely sure what to do with his hat for a moment, before placing it on the bench to offer Tony his hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Tony took Bucky’s hand. “Thank you for coming.” He nodded to the trunk. “Is that the things you mentioned?”

“Yes. forgive the dust, they were packed away in the darkest part of the attic. It took me ages to find it again,” Bucky said, giving Tony’s hand a squeeze and then letting go again, taking a seemingly reluctant step back to allow for proper distance.

“I appreciate the effort,” Tony said, proud of the way he managed to say that calmly, civilly. He then promptly spoiled it by adding, “Will you come up for a bit? I’ll ring for tea, if you like.”

“I should like that very much,” Bucky said, “if it’s not an imposition, of course.” He hesitated, then-- “I debated on not giving this back at all; unlike the rest, this never left my possession, and was of great value and comfort to me, but it is yours and you should have it back.” He pulled a small pouch from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Tony accepted it, mystified. “What is it?” He untied the strings and tugged it open, spilling out--

A simple silver wire, wrapped around a piece of cobalt sea glass, threaded through a necklace made from horse hair. The pebble had been one that Bucky found on a trip to the sea, and he’d given it to Tony, who’d made the pendant out of it, to keep it safe. After the first time they’d taken innocent kisses quite a bit further and found themselves as lovers, Tony had given it to Bucky, a token, he’d said.

The pendant blurred for a moment in Tony’s vision, and he found himself having to catch his breath. “Why--” he started, and then shook his head. They couldn’t discuss this _here_ , in the midst of the hotel lobby. “Come up. I’ll arrange a tray.” He hefted one end of the trunk to test its weight, then scooped the whole thing up to rest on his shoulder.

“You always were stronger than you looked,” Bucky said.

Tony really had to stop trying to read meaning into things that weren't there. He gave Bucky a thin smile and led the way to the stairs and up to their suite.

He set the trunk on the floor in the sitting room and waved for Bucky to take a seat. He chose a velvet-covered wingback chair for himself, to remind himself not to lean into Bucky’s space.

“This is a comfortable, pretty little sort of parlor,” Bucky said, looking around. “Local gossip tells me you made it to America, indeed, and have the running of several steel mills.”

“And a factory,” Tony agreed. “Were you asking about me? Should I be flattered?”

“I did make some enquiries,” Bucky said. “Only a few, and of very small scope. I wished… more that you will eventually trust me enough to tell the tale.”

“There’s not much to it,” Tony said lightly, though he had to turn away from Bucky to recall those days of terror and heartache. He closed his eyes and banished those memories, and reached for the service bell to summon the promised tea.

“Tony-- may I still call you Tony, or have I lost that honor?” Bucky looked almost wretched, and his hat wasn’t going to survive if he kept twisting it that way between metal hand and flesh.

“I’m not sure I can imagine you calling me anything else,” Tony said, utterly truthful. Even after all he’d endured.

“Then, _Tony_ ,” and there was no mistaking the heat in the way Bucky said it, lingering over the two syllables like a caress. Not merely fondness, or friendship, but dark need. “I have many things to say, and I scarcely know how to begin, or where, or with which. They will be difficult things to say, and perhaps difficult for you to hear them, but I-- if you will, I should like to make the attempt.” 

Now this was interesting. Was Bucky going to actually _apologize_ for leaving Tony and Harley to their fate? “By all means,” Tony said. “Please.”

“I know… I know that I must have lost your affections, that you probably did not think of me. But… I also wish to say that what happened, however it happened. It’s in the past, and not for one moment have I forgotten you. You were the first thought in the morning, and you will laugh at knowing how you have haunted me. Waking, dreaming. It seemed to make little difference, and honestly, I could not well tell you which was which.”

Then why hadn’t Bucky _come_ for him? Why not at least try to defend him? Tony opened his mouth to ask -- but Bucky had many things to say, and Tony supposed he should be courteous enough to hear the man out.

“Perhaps I was not enough, not a good enough man, not-- I know my faults are many and may well be inexcusable,” Bucky continued. “No different from any other son of the peerage, I suppose. Foolish and spendthrift and useless. I wouldn’t know how to build up an empire of steel using what little you had. I would be in the street, begging, before the month’s out. If it’s not too bold of me to say it, I’m very impressed. Proud, even.”

That shouldn’t have made Tony’s stomach warm, but it did.

“I kept thinking, today will be the day I get over him. That I would wake up and not ache for missing you. And perhaps it did ease, a little. A very little, but when you’re in agony, even a lessening of pain is relief. And I saw you again, and it came back to me like it never left. It doesn’t matter to me, what happened, what you did, what I did. None of that matters but that you are back in my reach, and I would be a fool not to at least throw myself on your mercy.”

“What _I_ did?” Tony said, brain snagging on that phrase. “All I did was try to _survive_ , no thanks to you!”

Bucky brought himself up short, blinking, looking both incredibly hurt and a little offended. “No thanks-- Tony, I would have done _anything_ for you. I wanted to. I tried to.”

“Anything except set foot in the prison?” Tony threw back at him. “Anything except speak for me at the trial? If you’d tired of me--”

“No, never, Tony, I.. _what prison_? The Earl promised, he _promised_ me, if you were caught, if… there would be leniency. I… whatever I did to make you unhappy with me, that’s my sin and I’ll pay for it. But you were to be _let alone_ , if I did as the Earl commanded.”

Tony stared, suddenly seeing that night in a new light.

“He never-- He told you... what? That I’d run away? He was _waiting_ for me at the bridge! He had me arrested -- both of us, me and Harley together. Three days in Newgate and then an utter joke of a trial, and they put us in chains and threw us on a boat bound for Australia. And I thought... I thought, right up until the tide carried us from the harbor--”

“You thought I would come for you, oh, _Tony_. I’m… I’m so terribly sorry,” Bucky said, his voice breaking. “I didn’t know. I-- I thought you left me, that… that it wasn’t enough money, you didn’t want to take on such a thankless task, that… the Earl said it was all a ploy, that you… insinuated yourself into my affections for the _purpose_ of making your fortune.” A single tear beaded on his lower lashes, and then spilled over. 

“I would _never_ ,” Tony gasped. “How could you believe that of me? We were _children_ together! I was, I was going to give up everything I had to be with you, to be _yours_.”

"You weren't there," Bucky said, wiping impatiently at his cheeks. "The only witness I could find said you and Harley left the park with my horses, laughing about how easy it was and what a fool I had been."

Tony shook his head, had to swallow past a sudden knot in his throat. “Your father took the horses, all the bags. They even took my boots.”

"My God," Bucky said. "Oh my God. What you must think of me. I didn't know, I… I _believed_ him. I've done so poorly by you, I should have made inquiries, but I didn't want to draw attention to you. A few horses, some books. You shouldn't have been jailed or transported. I was afraid some overzealous constable… not that my discretion did you good and actively harmed you. I will never forgive myself, I can hardly blame you for hating me."

“I don’t hate you,” Tony said. “I could never hate you. I thought... you’d changed your mind, that you’d tired of me or...” He shook his head. “I was hurt. Angry, some. Harley was furious.”

"I don't know where… tell me how I can make this right. My foolish impulses, my boyhood dreams have caused you nothing but pain. And to think I had the ridiculous notion to come before you today and beg that you could love me again."

Something like a laugh tore out of Tony’s throat. “I never stopped,” he admitted. “Not really. Sometimes I could forget, for a little while, a few minutes, an hour. And then I would catch myself thinking, _I have to tell Bucky about this_.”

"You love me still? My darling," Bucky said and closed to the space between them to nothing more than a whisper, his right hand cupping Tony's cheek. Words seemed too much, and Bucky's eyes, still bejeweled with glittering tears, fluttered closed and his mouth touched Tony's lips with utter relief.

It was like coming home, like sinking into a soft bed after months of toil, a sense of relief so enormous that Tony sobbed as he clutched at Bucky’s shoulders.

The taste of Bucky’s mouth, the feel of his lips, the scent of his hair -- it was all familiar and beloved, everything Tony had dreamed of in his years of exile and cursed himself for being so weak as to want it, still. “Oh, sweetheart,” he gasped, clinging desperately.

"Yes, yes Tony, I'm here, I have you. My God, I'll never let you go again."

“Yes,” Tony said, pleaded, really. “Bucky, I--” His eyes fluttered open again and he saw, just beyond Bucky’s shoulder...

...Wanda’s fan.

Cold rushed through him. “No,” he whispered, and it was like pushing a blade into his own side.

"No?" 

“I... I can’t. Bucky. I love you, I love you with everything I am, but I... I’m promised to another. I’m _engaged_.” He hardly dared look up to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I _can’t_.”

"No, no, that… that _cannot_ be," Bucky denied, pulling Tony back in for another kiss, desperate and needy and oh, so perfect.

Tony succumbed to that kiss, and another, until he was forced to put out his hand and gently, achingly, push Bucky away. “If I could undo these past years,” he swore, “I would, I would be yours. But if I become a man who will not keep his word, then I become a man unworthy of your love.”

"You could never be unworthy," Bucky replied, "not when my actions put you in this position. But I'll not be the reason you forswear yourself." Reluctance in every line, Bucky took a step backward. And another. As if any word from Tony would bring him right back.

Tears pricked Tony’s eyes. “I’m sorry, my love. I should... I should have had more faith in you.”

"No, of course you needed to live your life, Tony. You moved on, you made something of yourself." Bucky laughed bitterly. "All I've accomplished was to become a contender for London's pugilist champion."

A slightly hysterical laugh broke through Tony’s teeth. “That’s-- that’s _you?_ Which... Well, you’d have to be the White Wolf, wouldn’t you? Oh my God, I’m meant to acquire _tickets_ for that match!”

"It's a conceit. T'challa calls himself the Black Panther when he fights. Some cultural significance. So naturally the penny dreadfuls have to come up with a singular title for me. It adds a bit of exciting nonsense to their stories." Bucky looked as though he was talking by rote, those crystal blue eyes of his wide with distress.

“The Black Panther is _the prince?_ ” Possibly, Tony shouldn’t be fixating on the boxing match so much, but it was infinitely preferable to thinking about how he had just regained Bucky and then lost him again in the space of a quarter-hour.

"It amuses the hoi polloi to see two upper class fops go hammer and tongs like common street thugs. Truly, it's mostly show. Right up until we get in the ring."

“You’re friends, though,” Tony said. “That must make for an... interesting match.”

Something dark and primal lurked I'm Bucky's eyes. "I'll see to it you have the best seats in the house. You and your beloved. Anyone else?"

“Her brother -- he’s here as her chaperone. And she’s not my _beloved_ ,” Tony murmured. He couldn’t quite resist the urge to brush his fingers down Bucky’s cheek. “That’s you. It will always be you. It was you even when I thought you’d abandoned me. Miss Maximoff is... I’m fond of her. But she’s not you.” He gave Bucky a sad smile.

"I… I confess I didn't expect this," Bucky said. "And you must believe that I wish you every happiness in the world. If anyone deserves it, it is you."

“So do you,” Tony said. “I’ve got... Well, most men would kill to be in my shoes, you know. I’ve got a pirate’s treasure, a thriving business, a devoted protege, a lovely fiancée. By all rights, I should be happy. I’d give up every bit of it if it meant having you again.”

“Perhaps it’s just not meant to be,” Bucky said. “I’ll take my leave of you, now, and have my man bring you the promised tickets. I’d invite you to call at Brooklyn Manor, but you know I cannot. It would not be safe for you. I doubt the Earl will do anything to a man in your position, so long as it’s not flaunted to him. You’re able to fight back now, on your own terms.”

“But he’s still the one with the title and power,” Tony said, nodding. “In New York, titles mean little, but here... I know. You’re welcome to call on me here, any time.”

“Certainly,” Bucky said. “If there are entertainments in London that your fiancée would like-- that are beyond your current means for entry, allow me to use my name to open doors for you. It is the least I can do.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Tony promised, and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “She’s been most excited about your boxing match, as it happens. She saw a bill for it when we’d been off the ship for less than an hour.”

“How… fortunate, then,” Bucky said. “I’ll… take my leave, then. Goodbye, Tony.” He bowed over Tony’s outstretched hand, and then put his hat on.

Tony’s throat closed, and he wanted to throw his arms around Bucky’s neck, beg Bucky to stay... But he couldn’t. He swallowed down his regret until it was a sour twist in his stomach, then dared to lean in and brush a soft kiss on Bucky’s cheek. “Until we meet again,” he whispered.

And then, with a swirl of his coat tails, Bucky was gone and Tony was alone in his room.


	10. Chapter 10

Jessica Jones kept him waiting in her parlor for over half an hour. Probably because that was what fashionable people did. Or because she was reading a book, or had been riding her horse, and wasn’t presentable. Whatever that meant.

Bucky was just as happy, perhaps even more happy, to see Jessica when she had been riding. Or fencing. Hmmm. Well that was an idea. He should do that, it would make Jessica happy, and a happy Jessica was more apt to agree to his plans.

When she finally did show up, she was wearing a silver and lavender gown that he hadn’t seen before. “Miss Jones, you’re looking in the pink of health,” he said, then waved a hand at her. “You need not say the same, I know I don’t.”

“In fact, you look terrible,” she said agreeably as she took her seat and waved at him to do the same. “Should you be about? To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“Same wound,” Bucky said, bluntly. “Only reopened, and that badly, after a miserable recovery. And your presence is always a comfort to me. Perhaps some fresh air and your arm would do me a world of good.”

That was code, which Jessica would know quite well -- _come for a walk with me so I don’t scandalize your mother._

She raised her eyebrows at him, but nodded. “A walk would be most welcome, if you would care to accompany me. The garden, or would you prefer a longer stroll?” _How much talking is this going to take?_

“A turn around the square would suit me,” Bucky said. _About twenty minutes, or more. Thanks for indulging me._ Astonishing how the two of them had learned to communicate effectively, and almost entirely privately. But it did take time, and occasionally an outing where Jessica’s lady’s maid could be bribed with one of the scandal sheets and a bag of peppermints to walk a little further behind them, out of earshot. Bucky had already secured his bribe.

It took her some few minutes to summon her maid and put on a bonnet against the sun, but soon enough they found themselves outside, Jessica’s hand resting lightly on Bucky’s arm. Once out of sight of the house, the maid accepted her bribe -- she wasn’t so reckless as to agree to let them out of sight, of course, but would fall back a ways so they could speak more privately.

“What’s got you so pale, then?” Jessica asked bluntly as they turned into the public square.

“I’m not a good man, you know that,” Bucky said. “So, perhaps it’s best just to say some of my prior sins are coming home to roost. There’s nothing quite so terrible as having your dearest wish almost offered to you, and snatched away at the last moment. But I’m trying to be better. To make up for my mistakes. To boil down to the essence, I need your help. I wish to provide what services I can; entertainment, company, and comfort. To the man I loved before, and love still. And his betrothed. Thus-- I need my own escort.”

“His betrothed,” Jessica breathed. “You do find yourself in the most intolerable scrapes, Lord Barnes. And you want me to pretend to be your sweetheart? To what end -- to make him jealous? To present the lie that you no longer care for him?”

“To remind me,” Bucky said, “that I am extending him consequence and notice, opening doors for him that might otherwise be closed. And to keep me from forgetting the promises he made, so as not to tempt him to break his word. I wish to help him, not-- interfere.”

Jessica gave Bucky a raised eyebrow. “You are far too noble for your own good,” she chided. “You should just run off together. Be _happy_.” Her eyes narrowed a little as she pretended to study him. “I’m not sure you remember _how_.”

“Perhaps. But I will do all he requires of me, and no more, and this-- this is what he needs. To let him live in peace with the decisions that have been made. I’ll not make it harder for him. Will you aid me? To soften the offer, I will be happy to escort you to another set of fencing lessons, and of course, front tickets to the event next week.”

“Damn. It seems you’ve learned which of my buttons to press entirely too well. How long will we be presenting this fiction, do you think? The longer it goes, the harder it will be to convince my mother that you’re not serious in your suit.”

“I am yours at your command, Miss Jones,” Bucky said. “Should you tire of the fiction and need a comfortable home. Everything you want, and I’ll leave you to your own devices as much as humanly possible. You haven’t had your head turned or your heart touched in almost two years in the marriage mart.”

“Nor am I likely to be so charmed in my next two years,” she agreed. She glanced at him sidelong. “Sincere, if not heartfelt. I shall take your offer under consideration. At least we could be friends, if not quite lovers. Marriages have been built on weaker foundations.”

“We would be friends, and I would let you be as outrageous as you liked. Who’s going to argue with a countess?”

“There would be certain advantages,” she agreed. “I will think on it. And in the meanwhile, you may escort me wherever you have need of a polite social fiction.”

“Lovely,” Bucky said. “We shall test the theory and have an afternoon call with them, tomorrow if that’s not too soon. The girl could use a friend, and I-- need to come to grips with meeting her.”

“Tomorrow,” Jessica said, nodding. “I will not promise to befriend her, but for your sake I will give her a fair chance.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “And do feel free to kick me or step on my foot or something if I start acting… poorly.”

Jessica laughed outright. “What makes you think I would be able to recognize such behavior, sir, when I am as poorly-behaved as a kitchen wench, according to my mother?”

“That’s terribly unfair of your mother,” Bucky said. “What have the kitchen wenches ever done to her?”

“Have I not, then, told you the tale of the time Mother walked into the herb garden for a stalk of lavender just as the cook was throwing out the dish water?” Jessica grinned and launched into the tale, including a highly amusing mimicry of her mother’s outrage.

Bucky tried to listen, and he was pretty sure he nodded in all the right places, but as soon as Jessica had agreed to act as his liaison and shield, he let his mind wander, right back to those few moments when he was happier than he’d ever been in his life, knowing that Tony loved him still, and thinking, believing, for even a few minutes, that he could, in fact, _be happy_.

The taste of Tony’s mouth, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body against Bucky’s. A few moments, that was all he was ever going to have.

* * *

Despite having told Bucky that he was free to call at any time, Tony was somewhat startled when one of the hotel staff knocked the very next afternoon to tell him that Lord Barnes was hoping to see him.

Lord Barnes and a Miss Jones, whom Tony didn’t know at all.

He told the page to show them up at once. “It seems we will be having guests for tea,” he told Wanda and Pietro.

Bucky had a new coat, a deep blue one, and he came up with a young lady with black hair done in a simple bun, wearing a violet day dress that should have looked terrible on her and somehow didn’t. “If I may,” he said, after shaking Tony’s hand, “I would like to introduce my companion, Miss Jones, to your notice. Miss Jones’ family resides in Knightress Abbey, which abuts my family’s land.”

Knightress Abbey, Tony did remember. He bowed over Miss Jones’ hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce my betrothed, Miss Maximoff, and her brother, who have kindly accompanied me on this trip.”

Bucky took Wanda’s hand delicately, and shook Pietro’s firmly, everything proper, his eyes very deliberately not straying to look at Tony as he professed himself delighted to meet them.

Miss Jones rather fumbled her own greeting, stammering somewhat as she spoke to Wanda, and nearly forgetting to greet Pietro entirely.

“Tea is due to arrive any moment,” Tony assured them, ushering the small party into the parlor.

Bucky spoke of many things, almost entirely carrying the conversation forward for some time, until Wanda’s reserve wore off and she was just as interested in the conversation. Bucky knew a great many of the peerage, including having spoken briefly with the king. “The Earl, you know, very influential man, and his opinion is sought.” Bucky seemed a little bitter about that point, but went on with, “Fortunately, he goes to Surry the day before the rematch, and will be quite out of the way and unable to point to my, undoubtedly numerous, injuries. T’challa is my friend, but the fight is a matter of some honor in his country. He will not make it an easy one.”

Wanda pouted at Tony prettily. “You didn’t tell me you _knew_ the contenders!” she accused.

“I only just found out yesterday,” Tony protested.

“In fact, Miss Maximoff,” Bucky said. “When we were told of your enthusiasm for the match, Miss Jones insisted--” Bucky nudged his friend lightly. “Go on.”

Miss Jones went pale, then pink, then-- “Oh, right, I am sorry, so scatterbrained sometimes,” she said, digging around in her reticule. “Lord Barnes and I are good friends, and I’ve had a good view at any time that I want to watch him get bounced off the boxing wall a few times. If you’d, all of you, please, would be more than welcome to join me.” She found what she was looking for, then fumbled with the packet of papers, and then nearly knocked her head into Wanda’s as they both went to reach for them at the same time.

“So kind of you,” Wanda gushed. “Isn’t that lovely of her, Mr. Stark?”

“Extremely generous,” Tony agreed, though he was looking at Bucky as he said it. “It will be nice to have someone familiar there to explain the intricacies of the event to us.”

Pietro snorted. “There are no _intricacies_ in boxing,” he said. “You hit them, you get hit, one of you falls over. No finesse.” Then he paused. “Is there betting?”

“There is a great deal of betting,” Bucky said. “And at this point, the pot has grown so large for the match that the winner will take a clear five thousand. Are you a fan of the sport, or for gambling?”

“From time to time,” Pietro said. “If the stakes are worth my time. What odds are they giving, do you know?”

Wanda nudged Pietro. “Stop that,” she chided. “So vulgar. You will learn the odds before the fight, in plenty of time to lay your bets.”

“If you wish to place bets with the most trustworthy of the bookies, I will have my manager, Mr. Wilson, point you in the right direction. There are some less than reliable who frequent the betting boxes.” Bucky leaned back in his chair, sprawling with a singular lack of proper manners, the insolent look that he’d perfected as a very young man. If seemed almost forced, as if he were being unconcerned on purpose, and when he thought no one would notice, his randomly drifting gaze settled on Tony, mouth quivering a moment before he pressed on the charming, rakish smile.

Tony met Bucky’s eyes a few times, and was almost startled that sparks did not actually appear in the heat of that collision. Better not to look at the man at all, he knew, but couldn’t seem to help himself.

Wanda was listening with rapt attention to Miss Jones’ description of the sort of clothing best worn to such an event. “You must allow me to take you to the shops,” Miss Jones asserted. “I know all the best places, and won’t let them overcharge you just because you’re American.”

“Oh, yes!” Wanda enthused. “You have such lovely taste -- I shouldn’t have ever imagined this shade for a dress, but it’s simply perfect for you. It makes your eyes so bright!”

“That’s very kind of you,” Tony put in.

Bucky’s eyebrow went up and he sat forward a little in his chair. “It seems you’re a good influence, Miss Maximoff. Or she trusts you not to be nearly so interested in gown embellishments as her mother.”

Miss Jones gave Bucky a fiercely quelling glance, and Tony had to cover his mouth to hide a smirk; it was much the same sort of glare that Wanda shot in Pietro’s direction when the boy was being particularly obnoxious.

“Well, then, it’s settled,” Bucky said. “Shopping tomorrow, and perhaps, later, you will all allow me to take you to Gunther’s for an ice. Or perhaps the day after. I know Mr. Stark is in London not for idle entertainment, but for business. Or we could escort you without him, if you like, Miss Maximoff.”

“That would be delightful,” Wanda said, not to Bucky, but to Miss Jones. “Mr. Stark _is_ so very busy; Pietro and I have been spending half our days wandering on our own.”

“Well, then it seems we’ve come to an agreeable accord, then,” Tony said, relieved that he wouldn’t need to feel quite so guilty for leaving Wanda and Pietro to their own devices. “With any luck, I might complete my afternoon meeting in time to join you at Gunther’s.”

* * *

Despite what the papers sometimes said, Bucky was not enemies with any of the men he’d fought. He didn’t fight for hatred, like some men did. T’challa was his friend, and also his rival. It seemed a concept foreign to many people, but it didn’t matter. Not really.

He was going to face his friend in competition in the ring.

The first real fight he’d had since the accident. There had been many sparring matches, with Sam, with other fighters, as he worked to get back into shape, to learn how to use the prosthetic arm, to learn how to face his fear.

Somewhere in there, he’d mostly stopped hating himself for losing Tony, had recovered some amount of equilibrium. 

Of course, he’d almost completely lost it again, having Tony come back into his life and be, in fact, completely unobtainable.

Even further now beyond Bucky’s reach than ever.

It ached, but it was at least a familiar ache.

And he at least had the pleasure of being able to see Tony again, knowing that he was safe and prosperous. Happy.

Bucky thought he could have some peace there.

His parents, too, were calmer, now. Spending so much time with Miss Jones had given them ideas that he might soon decide to bring home a bride. The Jones’ were social climbers, on the very edge of falling out of landed gentry, but her father was a gentleman, and that was something. She was low, but not so far out of his circle. 

They would be happy, at least. Miss Jones, perhaps not. She’d been a bit waspish with him this past week. Too much favor, and not enough benefit for her. Well, perhaps they could take out horses and go racing in a few days. She would enjoy that.

“Your opposition’s sister is here,” Sam said, poking his head into the dressing room. “I’ve a mind to set her out on her ear.”

“I should like to see you try it,” Bucky said. He looked at himself in the mirror.

That was not one of the things he had come to peace with; what he looked like now. There were huge scars, livid and pink, against his chest, and the metal arm was anchored over his shoulder, bound to what remained of his upper arm. The whole attachment could be removed, for care and cleaning, but mostly it was part of him. He had some limited mobility with the fingers, but if he wanted to hold something, it had to be cupped in his palm, not grasped. It was one of Shuri’s constant frustrations that she hadn’t been able to complete an entire movable limb.

“Lord Barnes,” Shuri said, pushing her way past Sam and into Bucky’s changing room. “Do you feel you are ready?”

“I think we’re going to find out,” Bucky said. He was strangely calm, though. Whatever jitters had bothered him before previous matches, he didn’t have them. The butterflies in his stomach had flown away. “I hope your brother is prepared. I expect if I land a blow, it’s going to be excessively painful.”

Shuri grinned. “T’challa is very excited. You are the only one who has been able to give him a good fight.” She eyed the arm. “It is not giving you trouble? He will not hesitate to use your weaknesses against you, you know.”

“It’s not,” Bucky said, and he rotated the shoulder, twisted the arm, showing her how much range of motion he’d been able to recapture. “Honestly, this-- this is a miracle. A gift. You’re _amazing_.”

“I am aware,” she said, smirking at him. “I will solve the problem of the fingers soon, you will see.” She studied the arm’s movement, then shook her head. “I hear your Mr. Stark is in the stands, along with his lady.”

“He’s not… my Mr. Stark,” Bucky said. _And he never will be._ “She seemed eager to see the match. She’ll be a good helpmate for him, quick and clever, but light and amusing. He needs that.”

“And what is it that you need, Lord Barnes?”

“Peace,” Bucky said. “I just need… peace in my mind.”

“I am sure it will be very peaceful for you, after my brother knocks you out,” she said, and laughed as Sam growled and tried to nudge her toward the door.

“Maybe it will,” Bucky said. “I don’t know. No one’s ever managed to knock me out before. Took a whole carriage and a team of horses to do it.”

“We will see you after, yes? Loser buys the first round!”

“Prepare to fund a lot of whiskey, Princess,” Bucky said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knightress Abbey is named after one of Jessica Jones’ aliases in the comics.


	11. Chapter 11

The mood of the crowd was the sizzle of lightning in the air just before a storm, buzzing under the skin, an energy that bounced from person to person, expanding itself.

Tony sat between Wanda and Pietro, with Miss Jones on Wanda’s other side, and Miss Jones was leaning forward to explain to them the rules of the fight, telling them of that first, ill-fated match.

Tony’s eyes kept dragging his attention away from Miss Jones and to the fighting ring, stark and empty. This wasn’t anything Bucky had shown an interest in, before. How had he come by such a hobby?

Because the event was so large, and the crowd so raucous, there were several pre-event shows. A pair of fools staged a mockery fight that was more intense acrobatics and dance than combat. A cluster of street children had an all out melee, fighting for a handful of gold sovereigns. And a big, strong man, nearly seven feet tall, challenged any and all comers to trade a single blow with him. Several men tried, all failed.

Tony feared he would have to stop Pietro from volunteering, but apparently Pietro’s foolhardiness did, in fact, know some bounds.

But the longer the pre-fight entertainment wore on, the more antsy and jittery Tony felt. What if Bucky were seriously hurt? What if Tony’s presence in the audience distracted him? What if _T’challa_ were hurt, and Bucky blamed for it?

As the contender -- and according to the bookies, not favored to win, the odds running 3 to 1 against -- Bucky was introduced first.

He came out with his manager. Bucky wore tight fitting trousers, was barefoot and bare chested, wearing only a cloak over his shoulders to keep him warm. It also kept his left arm concealed until he made it through the crowds and into the ring, where he threw off the cape and turned a circle to show off lean muscles and extensive scarring.

The crowd erupted into noise -- some cheering, some jeering, according to their wont and the placement of their bets. Tony couldn’t make a sound, too transfixed by the sight. So many scars. So much pain. _Oh, my love, how you’ve suffered._

T’challa came next, with a list of titles and awards and accolades as long as Tony’s arm. He was wearing the same basic gear, purple trousers and a matching cloak, looking every inch the king he would be someday. His dark skin was gleaming under the lights and he looked like a warrior god.

The roaring of the crowd bothered him not at all. He strutted around the ring, waving to his supporters, ending up back at the center, where he finally deigned to face Bucky.

Tony felt lightheaded, and realized he’d been holding his breath. How he was going to remain conscious for the duration of the fight, he had no idea.

Wanda said something to him and he had to ask her to repeat it. “Terribly exciting, don’t you think?” she asked, smiling brightly.

“Yes, exciting,” Tony agreed, though his brain was running circles around anticipation and terror.

There were rules, of a sort. No kicking while an opponent was down. No biting. No hitting below the belt, and then Miss Jones had to explain to Wanda what that meant, and she made one of those faces. “Why would they do that to each other?”

Pietro scoffed. “Don’t you know anything?”

“To your sides!”

Bucky shook his head, his dark hair falling around his face in messy lines. It was longer than it had looked, tucked back in the queue he normally wore, shiny and thick.

“He’s quite handsome,” Wanda said, nudging Tony. “Don’t you think?”

_Yes._ “Which one?” he asked, summoning a teasing little smile and nudging Wanda gently.

“Lord Barnes,” Wanda said. She turned to Miss Jones, her eyebrows furrowing. “Rumor says you and he have a tentative _arrangement_.”

They _what?_

“Very tentative,” Miss Jones said. “He must marry someone, as must I. And we get along well enough.”

Tony wondered, suddenly, if Miss Jones _knew_.

Wanda sat back in her chair with a huff (they were some of the few people who had actual chairs, most of the crowd were on their feet, and probably would be regardless.) “I think it would be very nice if we were allowed to marry as we wished, for more than just getting along _tolerably well_.”

That... was the first time Tony had heard her express an opinion even vaguely opposed to their engagement. “Yes,” he found himself saying. “That would be nice, I think.”

“Well, you are very pretty and clever and certainly allowed to marry as you like,” Miss Jones said. “So long as you like someone of a similar class, who is handsome, and of good fortune, and clever and has a good character. No trouble at all, I should think. When you eliminate everyone who is not all of those things, surely there must be someone left that you can care for?” She laughed, obviously a long-standing discussion for her with someone, probably a parent.

Wanda laughed along with her. “Yes, exactly. _The world is your oyster, my dear; but be certain to select a pearl._ ” Tony had heard her father say those exact words.

The announcer sounded the bell, and the fight was on.

Tony didn’t know much about boxing. He knew enough about fighting to defend himself from muggers in the street, and Captain Rhodes had taught him a little fencing, but boxing as a sport wasn’t something he’d ever had much interest in. Still, he found himself leaning forward, perching on the edge of his seat, breath held in anticipation.

A long moment passed, the crowd’s shouts and screams so loud they could well be a physical thing, the weight of them pressing down. The two fighters circled each other, testing. A jab, a feint, dodging. 

Bucky closed and got a few good blows in on T’challa’s ribs before he was forced backward by a solid blow to the head. It seemed no time passed at all, or all the time in the world, before they were sent back into their corners. Neither man looked winded, or lacking determination. Someone passed Bucky a glass and he spat a mouthful, then drank the rest.

“Oh, it’s so violent,” Wanda said. She’d been practically cringing into her seat with each blow.

“It’s got the word _fight_ right in the description, you ninny,” Pietro jeered at her. “What did you expect? They’d exchange flowers and harsh language?”

“It can be a shock to actually see it in action for the first time,” Miss Jones defended. “If you’d like, Miss Maximoff, we could slip out, go for a little walk to get some fresh air?”

“Please,” Wanda said, her voice sounding small and shaky, and she made a soft cry when T’challa got a haymaker blow in, sending Bucky reeling back into the wall. Tony knew he should accompany her, but there was no way he could tear himself away from the fight. Not now.

“ _Women_ ,” Pietro said, as if he knew anything about them at all.

Miss Jones scowled at him as she pushed past him. “Lord Barnes has taught me fighting,” she said, “and if you should like, I’ll be happy to demonstrate those skills on your too-pretty face, Mr. Maximoff.”

“Did she _threaten_ me?” Pietro demanded incredulously. “I think she was threatening me.”

“I think you right well deserved it,” Tony said, amused. “Watch the fight, and ponder your apology.”

“If your friend loses,” Pietro said, “I’ll be pondering my escape to the continent.”

Bucky was quick, T’challa was strong, and had a few inches reach on him. The sounds of fists striking flesh should have been lost in the crowd, but wasn’t. T’challa got a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him in and raining blows across his ribs. Bucky shouted, unable to move back, and pushed forward instead until they both hit the wall with a thud.

“ _Corners_!” the announcer bellowed.

Tony was panting, imagining the pain Bucky must be feeling. “Hang in there,” he whispered. “You can do it.”

Bucky bared his teeth, showing blood in his mouth. Mr. Wilson was talking to him, quiet and calm. Bucky nodded, then got back to his feet. 

Tony missed what happened, it was so fast. The two combatants met in the center of the fighting space, and T’challa… did something. Bucky went over in a heap and for a moment, lay there, unmoving.

The crowd _roared_ and Tony found himself on his feet without ever having made the decision to stand. “Get up, get _up_ ,” he pleaded. Sweet Christ, what if Bucky were badly hurt?

Bucky raised his head as if he heard Tony over the wall of sound that was the crowd, pushed himself away from the dirt, and stood, swaying slightly.

“He’s done for,” Pietro said, disgusted. “Father’s going to _kill_ me.”

Tony spared a quick glance at Pietro. “Just... how much did you bet?”

Pietro sunk back into his seat a little. “About a thousand pounds, maybe. Possibly.”

Dear God, Lehnsherr _was_ going to murder the boy.

The noise surged around them and Tony’s attention was jerked back to the fight.

Bucky seemed to have gotten a second wind, his blows coming fast and hard, left, left, right, step back, dodge. He was like a dancer, light on his feet, impossibly graceful. He forced T’challa to retreat, and retreat again, until the prince shot out a hand and -- _crunch_ \-- landed a blow on the left shoulder, leaving the arm stiff and hanging useless off Bucky’s torso. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky swore and the whole crowd inhaled as one.

“Oh, hell,” Tony groaned. “Quickly, now, Bucky, finish it before it can hamper you any more!”

T’challa was not above pushing his advantage, raining most of his blows onto Bucky’s undefended left side. Again and again, and Bucky refused to go down, his face a bloody mess, each breath strained.

“Yes, I am dead. Here lies Pietro Maximoff, slain by his own father in a fit of rage,” Pietro sighed. “Unless you’ll spot me a loan, and he’ll never know.”

“We’ll talk, afterward,” Tony said. He could certainly cover Pietro’s debt, or enough of it to only get him in moderate trouble with Lehnsherr. Whether Pietro _deserved_ to have his debt covered, well... That was another question.

Bucky was saying something, his voice scornful, but Tony couldn’t understand the words, somehow liquid and light as French, with a sharp snap to them.

T’challa roared, even above the crowd, and he charged into Bucky, blows even faster, the two of them moving like men bent on murder.

Bucky turned, driving the entire weight of his upper body into T’challa’s sternum, knocking the man backward and to his knee. Instead of following up, he backed off, grabbed his own elbow and shoved. The sound of the mechanism reconnecting was brutal, and Bucky screamed, but when T’challa got up again to fight, the arm was working.

Tony’s heart was beating so hard and fast it felt like it might fly through his chest. How could he possibly have known that this primal savagery lurked beneath the facade of these polished noblemen? The brutality was horrifying and compelling in equal measure.

Bucky took two more stunning hits to the face and then, he managed to get a haymaker blow, with the left arm--

T’challa went down like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bucky took a step back, panting for breath as the announcer made the count.

“Eight… nine… ten! **Winner**!”

“He won?” Tony couldn’t even hear his own voice over the shouting and screaming. “He won!” He turned to Pietro, grinning so wide his face hurt. “He won!”

The announcer hung a medal around Bucky’s neck and then raised his hand over his head, while a physiker attended to T’challa, who was slowly coming around.

Bucky turned a slow circle, pride and exhaustion warring for supremacy on his face. And then he saw Tony, and every bit of his focus was on Tony alone. The fight, the prize, the accolades, were all forgotten and he looked at Tony like a dying man in the desert might look at a glass of water. It wasn’t love, nothing so tender or romantic, but aching need.

Tony swallowed hard, smiling. He kissed his hand and threw it in Bucky’s direction. If asked later, he would say he’d been caught up in the excitement of the match, the thrill of the moment, but he wanted, _needed_ Bucky to see that Tony loved him in that moment, and for all moments to come.

“Oh, I’m saved,” Pietro said with profound relief.

“So it seems,” Tony said, unable to look away from Bucky. “You owe Lord Barnes a debt, I should think.”

“I’m quite certain he did not make the extra effort just for me,” Pietro noted. “Where did Wanda go? She missed the whole thing, silly girl.”

Tony... had rather forgotten about his betrothed. “She stepped out with Miss Jones,” he recalled. “I should... go see to her.” He wouldn’t be able to push through the throng surrounding Bucky now, anyway, he told himself. Later. Later would be plenty of time to catch up.

He cast one last look at Bucky, then forced himself to turn away and go in search of the ladies.

He found them sitting on the stairs outside the club, Wanda looking pale, while Miss Jones waved a fan in her direction. “We got most of the way back in, just in time to see the Prince break Lord Barnes’ mechanical arm, and she almost fainted. I thought it best not to subject her nerves to any more shocks.”

“Yes, that seems a wise choice. He did win, in the end,” Tony added, in case they were wondering. “Are you quite well, Miss Maximoff, or should I take you back to the hotel immediately?”

“I can escort her, if you’d like,” Miss Jones said, immediately. “There’s supposed to be some raucous celebration afterward. I’m sure you and Mr. Maximoff would be better entertained there, then sitting around in the hotel parlor. And Miss Maximoff would feel better if you weren’t hovering over her, so.” Miss Jones managed to put herself between Wanda and Tony, practically forcing him to back away.

“No, I’m fine,” Wanda said, struggling to sit all the way up. “Really, I am.”

Tony spread his hands. “Ladies choice,” he said. “If you’d like to attend the celebration, then I’m happy to escort you there. You can always change your mind if you find it doesn’t suit.”

Miss Jones helped Wanda to stand, but as soon as she wobbled on her feet, “No, really, Miss Maximoff, I must insist. You need a quiet room and a restorative cordial. Much nicer than smoke filled rooms with whiskey and drunkards. Perhaps the kitchen will have a sherbert.”

“That does sound nice,” she said, looking at Miss Jones as if she’d just been saved from plunging headlong off a cliff. “If… If Mr. Stark does not mind, of course.”

“Of course not,” Tony agreed. “You must do as best serves you. Would you prefer I accompany you?” God knew, he’d rather go back and find Bucky, but duty demanded he offer his services to his fiancée.

"Stay, do, Mr. Stark," she said. "I'm sure you will much better enjoy yourself at the celebration." And she took Miss Jones' proffered arm. 

“As you like, Miss Maximoff,” Tony said, trying not to show his relief too obviously. “If you wish me to come, don’t hesitate to send a runner from the hotel.”

"Of course," Wanda said, and then they were gone, Miss Jones having hailed a hack carriage with an imperative wave of her arm.

Tony watched them drive away, then turned to go find Pietro and head for the celebration. And Bucky. Always Bucky.

* * *

Almost like being imprisoned, really. Coming down from the ferocity of the fight, the heat of battle, down to being expected to act the gentleman.

Some of his well wishers did not know how close they'd come to being punched or pushed away.

As it was, language had almost entirely escaped him. He was primal, feral. He bared bloody teeth at one man, accepted a drink from another.

His body, overheated from the exercise, soaked with sweat, grew cold and he shivered convulsively.

All he knew was that he didn't want to be here, pretending to be celebrating. There was nothing here for him.

And then-- Tony was pushing his way through the throng. He elbowed one man out of the way, spilling the man’s drink, and then stopped, eyes fixed on Bucky, wide and worried.

"Tony," Bucky said, his voice hoarse. "My dear-- my dearest friend. Come, sit with me." There wasn't a lot of room, Bucky was sprawled over most of the bench with Sam muttering on one side of him as he bandaged Bucky's wounds and rubbed liniment into aching muscles. 

But there was enough space for Tony to squeeze in. 

He did, pressing against Bucky’s body. “That was the most terrifying thing I’ve seen in over a year,” Tony said. “Are you badly hurt? Will T’challa recover?”

"Shuri tells me he hasn't been knocked out since he was twelve," Bucky said. "But he'll probably be fine. Headache. Sometimes it's harder to see after a knock out. Gotten my bell rung more times than I care to count. He's awake and coherent, I'm told."

Bucky didn't mean to lean into Tony's space, but he knew he was, too close until it was possible that he could brush his fingers against Tony's thigh and no one would notice.

Hopefully.

He shouldn't be doing it at all. Tony had denied him, rejected him. Even though he was honest enough to admit he still loved Bucky. 

But it was harder to be civilized. Civilization was a veneer thrown over the animal that was man. All Bucky wanted to do was snatch Tony up and take him away. Use those high, animal spirits and claim Tony as his own.

Tony wasn’t moving away from Bucky’s touch, though, and that was good, if not nearly enough.

"As for me," Bucky said, "it'll be hell's wages for the rest of the week, if I can even rise from bed in the morrow at all. T'challa has a fist like a brick."

“As well that yours is like steel, then,” Tony said with a sly little smile. “I would offer to call and sit by your bed to read to you as you recovered, but... Well. I shall write, at least, until you are able to limp back out into the streets.”

_You would be more than welcome at my bedside_ , Bucky thought, trying to convey the sentiment directly to Tony’s brain. “I will treasure every word,” he said, instead. 

Tony glanced up at him, the gleam of his eyes suggesting that he might have heard Bucky’s thoughts. Or echoed them. “I’m sure the revelry will last long into the night,” Tony observed. “How long do you think you should stay?”

“As soon as I won’t be missed,” Bucky said, looking around. “Which is to say, as soon as Wilson stops hovering and goes to have himself a drink. You’re a well-off man, Sam. Please-- show some enthusiasm. He gets twenty percent of the take, you know, and worth every farthing.”

“Gonna be twenty-five if you keep nearly stopping my heart like that,” Sam threatened, but he rocked off the bench and waded into the crowd in search of the bar.

“Fancy a stroll?” Tony asked. “I’m about at my limit for this much noise and having beer spilled on me.”

“Certainly,” Bucky said. He didn’t know how far he could walk under normal circumstances, but for the chance to walk somewhere, under cover of darkness, with Tony? He’d chance it. “Let me get a shirt and jacket.”


	12. Chapter 12

Tony conducted several fairly successful business meetings over the following days, and closed at least one major contract -- but if he’d been pressed for details about how those things had come about, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. His thoughts were full of Bucky.

Bucky remained abed for two days, then began forcing himself up and about. At least as far as Miss Jones’ parlor, where Tony and Wanda had been invited for tea -- entirely by coincidence, of course.

That evening, Bucky had taken them to his club to dine, but only partway through the soup course, Miss Jones narrowly escaped choking on a bit of fish bone, and Wanda had rushed her out to recover, leaving the two men together.

The next day, Tony had taken Wanda to a public musicale only to run into Bucky there as well, escorting Miss Jones.

Tony thought he might have seen more of Bucky in the last week than he’d ever managed when he’d been a stableboy working just under Bucky’s bedroom window. 

It wasn’t until Bucky had invited them all over to Brooklyn manor for a garden picnic (the Earl and Countess having returned to the country estate for a few weeks to deal with an issue there) that Bucky actually commented on it. The ladies had discovered one of the cats had a litter of kittens and were cheerfully playing in the grass with them, while Bucky lay sprawled on a blanket, eyes shaded, face turned up to the sun. “I must say, it’s been quite pleasant, spending so much of our free time together,” Bucky said. “Not that, the match over, I have anything but free time that needs filled.”

“I could only wish that I didn’t have so much business to conduct, myself,” Tony confessed. “The Earl hasn’t begun shifting his responsibilities onto you, yet?”

“I do believe the Earl is of the opinion that he will never die, and so it won’t be necessary,” Bucky said. “I do what I can -- several of the tenant farmers need a steady hand, and there are herds that the Earl thinks are beneath his notice. We’ve gone through a half dozen estate managers in the last three years alone.”

“That’s too bad,” Tony said with a frown. “I’ve come to understand the value of a good manager, these last few years.”

“I imagine you have,” Bucky said. “Tell me, have you come to love the colonies? What’s it like, so far from dreary old London?”

“Everything is fresh and new,” Tony said. “Anyone you pass in the street might be a brilliant inventor or a famous author or a renowned philanthropist. You would find it fascinating, I think. So many paths to choose from, so much freedom.”

“Perhaps someday,” Bucky said. “It might be nice to do something aside from follow my father on a path already carved in stone. The responsibilities of rank, they say, but truly, so many of the peerage-- they are out of touch with the modern age coming onto us. They know only what their fathers did, and them before. Trains and engines and factories, they’re changing everything. Taking power from the landed nobles and putting it in the heart of the cities, with industrialists. Adapt, they say, or die.”

“I believe you will adapt admirably,” Tony said. “You always were quite forward-facing.”

“Perhaps I was, once,” Bucky said. “But I find my mind more pleasantly occupied with the past, these days. But I shall come out to the colonies one day, for a visit. Do a tour, perhaps. You’d be so kind as to show me your steel and factories, that would be fascinating. You’ll have taken your wife by then, perhaps a child or two to carry forward your name. I’ll bring sweets and dolls from Italy and be a great hit with them, shall I?”

Bittersweet, that thought. “You shall, no doubt, be their favorite uncle,” Tony said gamely. Bucky would look beyond beautiful with a child on his knee. “They will insist that you visit quite often.”

“We shall do an exchange, then. One summer, your children come to me, and I will teach them riding and fencing and how to be proper ladies and gentlemen, and then I shall send mine off to you the next summer, and you can teach them how to be proper hooligans.”

Tony laughed, even if the thought ached and pulled at his core. “I may have to leave that education to Harley, but perhaps I will teach them how to saddle their own horses.”

“It will be a delight, I’m sure,” Bucky said. He sat up, shading his eyes. “What do they find to talk about over there? Thick as thieves, the pair of them.” He was looking at Miss Jones and Wanda, who were huddled together, the kittens romping over their skirts, heads together, speaking earnestly.

Tony shook his head. “The latest fashions, a new novel, that musicale we attended the other evening...” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“I envy it,” Bucky said. “That they can talk so easily. No need to be careful not to say too much. I’m sure they will have a lively correspondence once you’re back in the colonies again. And I will go, dutifully, to listen to each letter written, and hope for news.”

“Do you think I will fail to write you, myself?” Tony wondered. If he couldn’t have anything else, he would cling like the most stubborn briar to Bucky’s friendship.

“Well, yes, but you will tell pretty stories about how everything is well and favorable, and I will hear the truth of it through your wife, as to how you have been late for dinner three nights running and fell asleep over your workshop drawings,” Bucky teased. 

Tony could have protested, but what was the point? Bucky knew him so well, still. “There is no reason to believe such circumstance is _not_ well and favorable,” he said instead, putting his nose in the air haughtily.

“We shall be good friends,” Bucky said. “All of us.”

“Yes,” Tony promised. “There are many worse fates.” There were better ones, as well, but it was a lovely day.

* * *

Bucky put the letter down with a sigh. It had come Express, entirely too late in the evening. He hadn’t even noticed the door being banged upon, but at least the butler knew his job. Even at three in the morning.

So, of course, he’d roused Bucky in lieu of the master. 

It took Bucky several squints at the letter, trying to read while his valet was getting his coat and the cook was bringing him a hastily made up tea tray.

Bucky wasn’t fooled, not one bit.

Someone had told the Earl that Tony Stark was back in town.

“Flooding? In the village,” he said, flatly, addressing the servants, who were trying to avoid his eye. No one wanted to actually answer Bucky’s complaint and risk being reported for saying something ill of either the Earl or the Earl’s heir. “And the Earl expects me to be able to do something about it. Must come immediately? Rubbish.”

The servants hastily found duties elsewhere, as many of them as could reasonably escape. The butler coughed discreetly. “It is your lordship’s decision whether to answer the call, of course,” he said, “but your father the Earl is a most persistent man.” _Might as well give in gracefully_ , that meant.

“Do I look like the sort of man who can stop a flood?” Bucky wondered. He sought answers in the bottom of his tea cup, but even the dregs didn’t show any signs or portents. “Right. I’ll pack today, after the sun is up. Have my secretary cancel all my appointments past tomorrow noon. I’ll go horseback, but send my trunk and valet with the carriage. God _damn_ it.”

Tony was leaving in another week, maybe two. Jokes and plans aside, they probably would never see each other again, and now, even that brief, bittersweet time was cut short. 

He crumpled the paper from the Earl and threw it at the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit, of course, but it was the thought that counted, right?

“Very good, sir. If you should wish to leave any notes in my care, I will ensure they are delivered promptly.” He meant Jessica, of course; the whole household had breathed a collective sigh of relief when Bucky had begun his somewhat lackluster courtship.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll go out and call upon Miss Jones today, I’m sure she’ll see me,” Bucky said. And there was a good chance he’d see Miss Maximoff, as well, who seemed to have become Jessica’s best friend in the entire world -- or at least, all of London. And Miss Maximoff would know when and where Bucky might find Tony for one last farewell.

“Very good, sir. I shall leave you to your packing. Shall I have the cook send up a tray for breakfast, or will you prefer to dine downstairs?”

“Send one up,” Bucky decided. He was no fit company, even for the servants, and being in the breakfast parlor, he’d be under some observation. “I have letters to write, regardless.”

And time to kill. It would not do to call too early at the Jones’. A very early morning call was either an emergency, or it was a proposal (the idea being that one’s lovesickness kept one up all night until one had to run over to propose at daybreak. Ridiculous, if Bucky’s opinion was to be consulted).

The butler bowed his way out of the room, leaving Bucky with the valet, who was already whisking things out of the wardrobe and carefully folding them for the trunk.

Bucky stood there for a long moment, staring around at his room, his things, and wondered what he’d done wrong in a past life.

Surely, Fate or God or _something_ must hate him.

He had letters to write. Or, at least, to dictate, because even Shuri’s contraption didn’t give him any elegance. Despite that, he sat down at his desk, put his quill in his right hand, and began a laborious letter that he could never, ever, allow anyone else to write for him, and for almost two hours, poured out his heart to the man who he would never be able to have. He’d give it to Tony before he left with careful instructions to read it later, and be gone before he could worry he’d done the wrong thing, giving Tony this one, desperate, heartfelt missive.

Eleven was not too early in the morning to call on Miss Jones, so, after slogging through the rest of his business and social letters with his secretary, Bucky put on his favorite maroon coat and went to pay a visit to his not-quite-yet but-probably-soon betrothed.

As predicted, Jessica did not turn him away, but she looked quite surprised to see him. “I didn’t think to see you today,” she confessed. “It’s good you came when you did; I was on my way out for some shopping.”

“The Earl has sent for me,” Bucky said, shortly. “I’ll be gone with the first light tomorrow and must, therefore, cancel the rest of our plans for the week. I thought it best you hear from me personally, rather than in a letter.”

Her mouth fell open for a moment before she recovered. “Oh. Oh, dear. Thank you, that’s very kind. Needs must, of course.” She considered. “The little dinner we were planning for tomorrow could be moved up to tonight, I believe, if you’d like. A last hurrah of merriment before you ride off to attend the Earl?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, nodding. “It will probably be some time before the Earl is done requiring my service.” He gave Jessica a long look. “And I won’t burden you with it now, but-- certain things might… be discussed when I return. If you’re amenable.”

Might as well get on with the rest of his life, right? At least, if he took a wife, the Earl was not likely to require Bucky’s services unexpectedly.

“Upon your return,” she repeated, nodding. “I believe I will be ready, then, for such discussion. I’ll stop in at the club and make the necessary changes to the dinner -- I’ll be going that way on my errands anyhow. We’ll see you there at eight?”

“Yes, of course,” Bucky said. Several hours from now. He would go and see Shuri and T’challa, he decided. Get one last check over of his arm. At least those friends would still be in England -- the prince and princess planned to stay at least three more months, so far as Bucky knew.

But what a long, bleak time loomed ahead, after that. Well, thank God for Jessica Jones. She was a good friend, and would, hopefully, lighten the path for him a little bit.

Jessica smiled, just a little, and took his hand to press between hers. “Don’t look so forlorn,” she said. “Everything will be well.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bucky complained. “You’re not the one expected to apparently do something about flooding in Cheshire.”

Jessica blinked. “Flooding? But... surely it will have done all the damage it can do before you get there. Does he want you to help rebuild the dam?”

Bucky threw his hands up. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. 

She leaned in conspiratorially. “They do say the closer to the king one gets, the more likely one is to become mad.”

“That explains a great many things,” Bucky said with a bitter laugh. “I shall make my mother write to you in great, exhaustive detail about how unreasonable the Earl is being. That should get some entertainment, at least.”

She laughed lightly. “Yes, do. It will enliven an otherwise dull few weeks. Will you not write yourself?”

“I would not burden you with the attempt to understand my hand, these days,” Bucky said. “That is a task only for a few to undertake.” He pressed his fingers against the pocket of his coat where that last, precious letter dwelled. He could not, in fact, frank it and have it sent. Even that was too much risk.

“You’ll not improve without practice,” she pointed out. “But perhaps the Earl will keep you too busy for such indulgence.”

“You scold just like a wife, Miss Jones,” Bucky said, giving her a sly look and then raising a hand to keep her from swatting him with her bonnet.

She swatted him anyway, eyes sparkling with laughter. “Go on with you, then, about your business. I have my own things to attend to.”

Bucky nodded. “Until this evening, then.”

* * *

Wanda delivered the news of the changed schedule for their dinner, as well as the reason for it. Tony thanked her and saw her off to her room to change before half-collapsing on the sofa and scrubbing his hands over his face. _Leaving_.

Tony almost certainly wouldn’t see Bucky again before they returned to New York. And while he might well return to London to do business in the future... by then, they’d likely both be married, far too busy with their respective duties to do more than tip their hats to each other on the street, and perhaps -- if they were lucky -- steal an evening for a dinner.

One last evening, before their futures overtook them.

It was the same future Tony had been facing before he’d come to London. He’d been content with it, if not quite _happy_. But now the prospect loomed like the shadow of a gravestone, stretching out to envelop him.

Morbid. He’d been reading too many of Wanda’s fanciful novels. He shook his head and rolled to his feet to prepare. If they were to have only one more night in each other’s company, then he’d make the most of it.

Miss Jones had certainly prepared as if to make the most of it. The chef offered several selections to tempt them, and there was a generous amount of spirits to accompany each course.

“You must, of course, sit with your friend,” Miss Jones insisted, pushing them together at the bench.

“Are we not all friends, here?” Tony teased, but willingly took the spot. One last evening to feel Bucky’s warmth at his side. Pietro squeezed in on Tony’s other side, leaving the ladies to sit across the table.

“There, this is cozy!” Wanda enthused, looking avidly around at the club’s decor. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s always been my favorite,” Bucky said, and he pushed his leg against Tony’s; perhaps deliberately, perhaps without meaning to, but it didn’t matter. It was a small, sly comfort, and perhaps the last one he’d have.

“Well, then perhaps when next you dine here,” Tony said, “you’ll think of this evening.” _Think of me._

“Ugh,” Pietro complained. “If we are to begin with speeches, then I must have something stronger than wine.”

“Yes, of course, _you_ must,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes. “Now that you’re fabulously wealthy of your own right instead of just Father’s allowance, you will treat us.”

“The first round,” Pietro agreed, and signaled the waiter.

“You are selfish,” Wanda complained. “You won near to five thousand pounds, which is quite a bit more than even my dowry.”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “But you will marry a fabulously wealthy man,” he pointed out, waving at Tony. “Whereas Father expects that I will have the supporting of my eventual spouse. Why split hairs?”

“You will inherit the company,” Wanda squabbled right back, “and therefore --” She was so enthused, or perhaps angered, by the general unfairness of the universe that she, in fact, knocked over her wine glass, spilling it across the table and dumping it onto her skirts. “Oh, good gracious, look what you made me do.”

Miss Jones leapt up. “Quickly,” she told Wanda, “we must stop the stain before it sets! Come to the washroom so we can rinse it out.” She took Wanda’s arm to help her up and led her swiftly toward the far side of the room.

“I cannot decide who will have the more colorful wife,” Bucky declared, watching them flee. “Me, for having one who knows what to do with the laundry, or you, for the one who spills everything.”

Tony huffed, picking up his own glass. “They will both be colorful as birds of paradise,” he suggested, “but Miss Jones will have her colors well in order, whereas Miss Maximoff’s will fly everywhere.”

“I do not want to listen to you two _old men_ talking about wives,” Pietro said. “I’m young. I’m single and not looking to change it. I need to find a demimonde or something to spend the evening with.” He poured himself another glass of wine, causing the server to wince, and then got to his feet and staggered away.

Leaving Tony and Bucky alone at the table.

“I’m sorry you’ll be leaving so soon,” Tony murmured. “I’d hoped to have a little more time.”

“I, as well, have cherished every moment,” Bucky said, and somewhat forward, reached over and brushed his thumb over Tony’s lip. “It is both an ease in my mind to know you are well, and-- well, the rest, I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” Tony said, and let just a little of his longing show. “Will you-- You will write, won’t you? I can’t bear the thought of losing you entirely. Not again.”

“As often as I can,” Bucky promised. “I shall have to do it entirely on my own… no translator will do. But a labor well worth doing.”

Bucky swayed somewhat in his seat, “I have to wonder what sort of spirits your soon-to-be brother-in-law purchased for us. Perhaps it is only lack of sleep and dread for the journey to begin tomorrow.”

Tony shook his head and found that it was spinning a little. “No, it seems I, too, am somewhat affected.”

“Delightful,” Bucky said, grinning. “Well, then, if asked, tomorrow, I shall blame the whiskey.” He gave Tony every opportunity to pull away, leaning in until their breath mingled. “I am going to kiss you one last time, Mr. Stark.”

Tony knew he should say no. He ought to push Bucky away, remind him of the promises they’d made... but if it was their very last chance, he wanted a hint of sweet to leaven the bitter. “Then kiss me well, your lordship.”

Bucky’s mouth was soft, lips heated and supple. He let his fingers curl around the back of Tony’s neck, drawing him in even closer, the heavy metal hand coming down on Tony’s knee. A few soft, almost tentative nuzzles at Tony’s lips and then his tongue flicked over the seam, tempting Tony to open up and let him in.

It was a temptation that Tony had never learned to deny. Bucky’s tongue swept his mouth, hungry and desperate. Tony found his hand curled in the lapel of Bucky’s jacket, holding Bucky close, savoring every moment of that kiss, every sensation and taste and scent. The soft velvet of Bucky’s jacket, the slightly sweet scent of powder, the smoky burn of whiskey still in Bucky’s mouth. Tony tried to drink it all in, to memorize it, to burn it into his very being, a lone flicker of candlelight to warm him and guide him through the darkness.

Over too soon, Bucky backed away, face full of desire, pupils shot wide, lips trembling. “Any more and I shall surely cause us to both regret-- I cannot be sorry, nor make an apology to you for it, but… it has to end, or neither of us will know peace.”

Tony swallowed hard savoring that last, sweet taste of Bucky on his lips. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, you’re right. I. I will always...” He couldn’t say the words. They felt too much like _farewell_.

“I know.” Because Bucky did. At least they had that much. Some peace. Bucky loved him, Tony knew it as well as he knew his own name or how to calculate the area of a circle. It simply was. The sun came up, and Bucky loved him.

The stars wheeled through the night sky, and Tony loved Bucky, and always would.

He looked into Bucky’s face for a long, long moment, drinking in every beloved detail, and then forced himself to pull away, a vital few inches. “Another drink?” he suggested, pulling the bottle toward them.

“The first of many,” Bucky replied, and by the the ladies came back in the room, they were deep into a second, or perhaps even a third bottle.


	13. Chapter 13

Tony had barely laid his head down on the pillow, it seemed, and taken refuge in his empty, comfortless bed at the hotel when someone was hissing in his ear.

“Wake up, damn you,” someone said. “We are in so very much trouble.”

“Wh?” Tony pried one eye open and immediately regretted it. “Wh’sit?” His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

“So, uh,” Pietro said, poking his fingers together nervously. “I didn’t see this coming, not at all.”

Tony had never seen Pietro looking anything other than cocksure and confident. He groaned and pushed his pillow away, pulling the sheet around himself as he sat up. “What happened? Is your sister unwell?”

“ _Unwell_? Ha, well, that would explain a lot,” Pietro said, then took a deep breath. “Did you know that if a couple were to run away to Scotland together, they could get married at Gretna Green? No family permission, no approval, no bans. Nothing. But married they’d be, just the same.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “It’s. It’s how I wound up in New York, actually. Sort of. Why? What happened?”

“We need to go there, right away, fast as we can,” Pietro said, then, at the look on Tony’s face. “Not for us, you idiot! Wanda’s gone off to the Green. To be married! To _someone else_.” Just in case Tony hadn’t gotten the point yet.

“What?” It was hard to think through the fading drunkenness and rising hangover. “She’s-- _Who?_ She’s barely spoken to anyone since we got here except for you and me, and Lord Barnes and--” His eyes widened, much to his headache’s distress. “Jones.”

“It’s a terrible match,” Pietro complained. “For both of them. Neither of them have much of anything like money, not for a dowry, or jobs, or land. Jones’ family has an old, dusty title, but that’s it.”

“Maybe,” Tony said, “it’s not about money.” His head was spinning, and he didn’t think it was entirely due to the hangover. If Wanda had run away with Miss Jones, then that meant Bucky, too, would be missing his intended.

Which meant--

Tony threw off the blankets and grabbed for his robe. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do,” Pietro said. “You have to stop them, catch them-- Father will be furious and he’s going to _blame me_.”

Tony paused, turning to put a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. “If I fail to bring her back,” he told Pietro, “you must tell your father that it was my fault, that I didn’t keep her happy enough.”

“What does happiness have to do with weddings?” Pietro wondered. “She doesn’t need to be happy, she needs to be _comfortable_ and fed and have a home.”

“And I’m going to do what I can to ensure she has those things,” Tony promised. He would, too, if not precisely as Pietro intended. “Quickly, now -- go down to the stable and have them ready a horse for me, while I dress.”

“I can’t believe she ran _away_ ,” Pietro said, throwing his hands up. “Of all the ridiculous things to do--” and he was gone, still talking to himself as he went.

Tony pulled on his clothes as fast as he could, scrabbled through the armoire for his boots and wallet. Bucky had intended to set out at first light. If Tony was lucky, Bucky’s hangover would have pushed that schedule back a bit.

* * *

Bucky managed to get out of bed the next morning -- it was still technically morning -- somewhat before luncheon. He found the floor the hard way, and then committed an unmanly offense. Puked into his chamber pot. 

Ug. How the hell much had he drunk last night? He hadn’t been drunk enough to be this hungover since he’d been sent off to university for a few years. Those had been some days. He thought. He didn’t really remember much about them, to be honest. Education wasn’t something he needed, so he'd merely kept to the usual terms, made those acquaintances that he would need later, and come home as soon as possible.

“Did--” He managed to sit up. “Did I already send to the Earl that I would set out today? Do you think we could exaggerate and say my horse was lame, or something?” He cast a longing look at his bed. Sleep, and darkness. That was what he needed.

“I fear not, sir,” his valet said, not without a certain amount of sympathy. He didn’t try to make Bucky stand up right away, just handed him a cup full of something that looked foul and smelled worse. “Cook promises that will improve your outlook before you face the road.”

“Will it kill me? That would decidedly improve my outlook,” Bucky managed. He plugged his nose and drank the contents. Mistake.

Oh god, he really was going to die. “If Cook has poisoned me,” he gagged, “it’s your fault.”

“As you say, sir,” the valet said, unperturbable. He turned away and began laying out Bucky’s riding clothes.

There was nothing to do but go. Bucky staggered to his feet and all but fell into his bath. It wasn’t warm, of course. He’d ordered the bath for just before sunrise, and it was well past that now. But a cold bath would, perhaps, do some good for his hangover. 

Maybe.

Finally, dressed and mostly upright, he weaved his way down to the stable.

His horse was saddled and ready, and likely had been for hours. The groom, behind her, was leaning against the stable wall, head down as if he were catching a quick standing nap while he waited for his tardy employer.

At Bucky’s step, however, he darted around the animal’s flank and knelt, cupping his hands to boost Bucky into the saddle like some sort of green boy.

“Truly, do I look so bad?” Bucky wondered, although he wasn’t sure he didn’t need a leg up. His horse looked stupidly tall today.

“Never looked better, your lordship,” the groom said, and glanced up and--

_Tony_.

Bucky stumbled backward in shock. “What-- what are you-- not that I’m not delighted to see you, my dear friend.” He looked around hastily to see if anyone was there, to notice.

“I heard the most diverting news this morning,” Tony said, not abandoning his pose. “Would you like to hear?”

“You’re hiding among my servants to spread gossip?” Bucky didn’t know if he was intrigued or terrified. Or something. “I should like, above all things, to hear what you have to say.”

“It seems that while we were sleeping off our cups late last night, my fiancée and your intended slipped away, bound for Gretna Green.” Tony cocked his head, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips.

“What?” Bucky might have fallen, there, and ended up sitting on the edge of the horse trough. “They did _what_?”

“They ran away,” Tony said succinctly. “Together, if I understand the note Miss Maximoff left for her brother.” That smile grew a little wider. “Want to go after them?”

Bucky blinked, rubbed at his eyes. “Why? Let them go, if they wish to have each other, I would not--” and the rest of the thought dropped. “You don’t mean to _stop them_ at all.”

“Not remotely,” Tony admitted. “What do you say, your lordship? Shall we start over again?”

Was it even possible that-- “If… yes, if you will have me, I know of no other place that I have ever belonged, except for at your side. Start over, no. But start again, yes. Yes, I would. I would. I _will_.”

Tony stood up then, and gently nudged Bucky back into the stable before pressing him against the wall and kissing him soundly. Hungry, almost frantic in the way Tony clutched at Bucky’s coat. “I am yours,” he swore, “and you are mine, and it is time the world knew it.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Bucky said. “ _Always_. No other lips I’ve ever wanted to kiss but yours.”

And he did, took as much as he could, meeting Tony measure for measure, rolling his body against Tony’s, hands going to Tony’s hips and dragging him even closer. He would be content to make an oath before God, to consummate a marriage in the stable, on the haystack. Content, and more than content.

Tony groaned softly as he rocked into Bucky’s touch. “We should-- I paid your groom to take the morning off, but it’s nearly noon. We should be on the road before anyone sees us.”

“It’s going to take a _week_ to get to Gretna Green. Less if we change horses at every station and leave a trail a mile wide,” Bucky pointed out. He’d done that math once before. Although this time, his father would not be seeking him. Not for a few days, at least, until he didn’t arrive at the estate. 

But it didn’t matter. Bucky was going, and he would stand at Tony’s side next to the anvil, and the only thing that would stop him now was death. “Let’s go.”

* * *

It was a long ride, and they hadn’t stopped to rest much, for fear that they would be followed -- someone sent by Miss Jones’ parents, or Pietro, or Bucky’s father, when he realized Bucky was not going to meet him at Brooklyn estate as ordered.

They all but stumbled across the border into Scotland. Tony was half-dozing in the saddle, rousing only a little when Bucky said, “Not long now, love.”

The blacksmith’s shop was just barely over the border, white walls and black trim, with a tidy little green yard around it. There were a few people clustered around it, and then a line of them back at the nearby inn. Someone else had obviously made it there that day. It was tradition for the new couple to host a dinner at the inn the night of their marriage.

Tony swung off his mount and tossed the reins over a post. He swayed on his feet a little, getting his balance -- his legs seemed stuck in the riding position -- but then Bucky was beside him, an arm going around his waist to hold him up. 

Tony glanced up at Bucky, his soon-to-be husband, and smiled, tired as he was. “Ready?”

“Never been readier,” Bucky said. “Not for a single thing in my entire life. There’s not a thing that could stop this no--”

He stopped talking, staring over Tony’s shoulder, mouth dropping open in shock.

Tony turned to see what Bucky was gaping at. Miss Jones and Wanda were just stepping out of the blacksmith’s shop, arm in arm. Wanda looked nearly as tired as Tony felt, but both she and Miss Jones -- _Mrs._ Jones, now, presumably -- were looking at each other with incandescent happiness.

“I did tell you,” Tony murmured.

“I didn’t disbelieve you,” Bucky said, although he sounded like maybe he had. “I hadn’t realized we’d be so close behind them.”

“Hmm, they must have left directly after pouring us into bed that night,” Tony mused, “so they only had, what, a twelve-hour start on us. I guess we made up some time on the road.”

It was at that moment that Wanda looked up and spotted them. Fear and then determination flashed across her face. She stomped across the yard to face them, hands braced on her hips. “No,” she said firmly. “You can’t make us go back. It’s too late; we’re already married.”

“Legally, we can, in fact,” Bucky said, putting on his lordly face. Tony didn’t see it all that often, Bucky rarely had to _demand_ anything. “Until the marriage is consummated, it can be annulled. That said-- we did not come to stop you at all. Allow me to offer heartfelt congratulations. And thanks.”

Jessica Jones kicked him in the shin. “Don’t be mean.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes at Tony. “You did not ride all this way to offer _congratulations_ ,” she said suspiciously. “And thanks for _what?_ ”

“For freeing us both from our engagement,” Tony said. He reached out, seeking Bucky’s hand with his own.

“All we’ve ever wanted was each other,” Bucky added, lacing their fingers together. “We’ll seize our chance now and hold on tight.”

“You--” Wanda’s eyes went big and round. “Oh! _Oh!_ ”

Tony smiled sheepishly. “I thought I’d lost him for good, when I came to New York, or I wouldn’t have asked you. And having given you my promise, I didn’t want to break it. But... Well, you’ve done us a favor, really. And I wish you both all the best.”

“I know you two must be eager to get along with the-- the rest of things,” Bucky said, his neck going a little pink. “But even an anvil marriage must have witnesses, and rather than call on any of the townfolk, perhaps you’d be so kind?”

Wanda and Miss Jones exchanged a glance and then nodded as one. “Yes, of course,” Wanda said, turning right back toward the little shop. “Come on, then, and we’ll all host a supper together.”

Bucky laughed, delighted. “Yes, yes we will. A party the likes of which Gretna Green has rarely seen.”

The blacksmith -- although really, Tony wondered if he did any smithing at all, his hands were very well cared for and not burned or nicked much at all -- scowled as the ladies came back in. “No refunds,” he said, “nor even if ye’ve changed your minds.”

“They’re only here to bear witness,” Tony assured him. He took his wallet from his breast pocket and laid several notes on the anvil. “For us.” He put his wallet away and took Bucky’s hand again.

“Ach, well, that’s fair,” the blacksmith said. “Do ye have a ring, or will ye buy one here?” He indicated a tray of Scottish silver bands, in a variety of sizes. 

Bucky made a face, then reached into his pocket. “I had picked it up, the night-- the night I lost you,” he admitted. “It’s a little battered, now. Much like I am. But it was always meant for you.” He removed a whiskey flask from his pocket and, on the chain that held the cap to the flask, was a gold ring with black enamel. As Bucky had said, a little battered from being in his pocket for the last few years, but it still had a little gleam to it.

“All this time--?” Tears filled Tony’s eyes, and he couldn’t even pretend it was the smoke from the forge. “It’s perfect,” he said. He kissed Bucky’s cheek quickly, then turned toward the anvil. His heart was pounding like the smith’s hammer -- well, _a_ smith’s hammer, at any rate -- but he’d never been more certain. “We’re ready.”

The ceremony itself, what little there was of it, was short and sweet and to the point. Marriage was the joining of hands and hearts and what was sworn here, before God and witnesses, was not to be broken apart.

Cherish, love, and care for your husband, all the rest of the days of your life.

Tony couldn’t say he was, in fact, completely paying attention. The blacksmith knew that, however, and when it came to the vows, said them before, a few words at a time, so Tony, and then Bucky, could repeat them.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Bucky said, holding out his hand, the ring extended for Tony to slip on.

Behind them, Wanda sighed. “I dropped ours.” 

“That is because you are _useless_ ,” Mrs. Jones said, her voice fonder than Tony had ever heard her before. “I caught it. We’re married.”

Tony slid his finger into the ring, and Bucky had enough of a grip on it, at least, that he didn’t drop it.

Tony didn’t have a ring that was meant for Bucky, but he did have the one he’d meant to place on Wanda’s finger, what seemed like a thousand years ago. It was gold, with a pattern of ruby slivers inlaid in it in the shape of a star. (A flower, the jeweler had insisted, but it looked like a star to Tony.) It was, of course, far too small to fit any of Bucky’s fingers, but Tony managed to slip it over the tip of the correct finger of the false hand, and give Bucky a rueful smile. “I’ll make you a better one,” he promised.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Bucky protested. “This one is perfect.”

“You may kiss, and seal your vows,” the blacksmith said.

Bucky’s right hand came up to cup the side of Tony’s face. “ _Finally_ ,” he breathed, just before his mouth touched Tony’s, soft and warm and reverent.

Tony only barely resisted the urge to fling his arms around Bucky’s neck, to deepen the kiss into something wholly inappropriate for a public gathering. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward, chasing after the kiss when Bucky drew back.

“I now pronounce you wedded.”

Tony smiled into Bucky’s eyes. “Hello, husband.”

“Hello, my husband.”

Most of the village had gathered -- two wedding feasts would be a treat, certainly, and then the rumor went around that they were both previously betrothed couples, and everyone had to come and take a look.

When it was discovered that they had, in fact, been previously engaged to each other-- well, there were going to be tales told of this night for the next twenty years at least.

Tony found himself handed around the room, being passed from table to table as he told his tale over and over again.

That segued into him talking about his business in New York, the plans he had for the rails there and the business he was thinking of bringing to the Isles. Wanda, somewhere, mentioned the pirates, and he was forced to tell _that_ story as well, or as much of it as he could stomach sharing, anyway.

It was Miss Jones who pressed a meat pie into his hands with a roll of her eyes so he would actually be permitted to eat at his own wedding feast, and later, a mug of strong, sweet cider.

Whenever he looked up, his eyes sought Bucky, and more than half the time found Bucky looking right back at him. His _husband_ , by God, at last.

Someone had brought an instrument; not uncommon at weddings, and while, for some time, the music had just been background noise, Bucky came over as soon as Tony’s hands were empty of pie and drink. “I feel I’ve been waiting nearly a century to ask you to dance with me,” Bucky said. “Your Mrs. Maximoff’s rough handing you over to my care not exactly counting. But will you honor me? Husband.”

Tony had to blink back tears, that long-wished dream finally coming true. He took Bucky’s hand and let Bucky draw him toward a bit of open floor. “And what shall we have for our first dance as husbands? A Scottish reel?”

“I’ve always been fond of the waltz,” Bucky said, jerking his chin at the musician, who seemed to share a telepathic bond, because the next strains of music were slow and sweet. 

“Scandalous,” Tony murmured, a smile tugging at his lips as he let Bucky draw him close. “Practically making love standing up.” He curled his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, reveling in the feel of Bucky’s warmth. “Perfect.”

The false arm was a little heavy, the real one held his hand almost too tight, but it was as perfect as it could be. “I find myself almost looking forward to seeing what Father has to say about this.” And Tony knew Bucky didn’t usually call the man Father, preferring the title to anything more personal. And for the first time, Tony wasn’t afraid of the Earl, or his reactions.

“I must admit to some curiosity about that, myself.” He laughed at a sudden thought. “Do you think, if I greeted him as _Papa_ , he would be so furious he’d not be able to say anything at all?”

Bucky snorted ungracefully, and nearly stumbled. “I should enjoy that, I think. We shall have to do it. There’s no chance he’ll take it well, might as well get as much enjoyment out of the moment as possible. You will take care of me, won’t you, if he tosses me out without a farthing?”

“Of course,” Tony promised. “I shall take you back to New York with me and you can manage my social calendar.”

“Plan your menus, organize your servants, answer your correspondence. Look pretty on your arm at events. You couldn’t ask for a better spouse,” Bucky promised.

“Indeed not,” Tony agreed, taking advantage of a turn of the dance to brush a quick kiss across Bucky’s cheek. “That would be as true in a tiny cottage as in my New York flat or on the Brooklyn estate. Wherever we are, you will be the perfect one for me.”

“Together,” Bucky said, and despite everyone watching, as the music coming to a close, he pulled Tony in, even closer, and pressed his lips against Tony’s mouth. Raucous cheers and catcalls surrounded them, and though Tony could feel the heat of Bucky’s blush against his skin, Bucky didn’t let go.

Tony gave in to the urge to sink his fingers into Bucky’s hair, leaning closer yet until their bodies were pressed together from hip to chest, losing himself to the sensation of Bucky’s mouth on his. “Together,” he sighed when they finally parted. “Forever.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our smut-averse readers: The entire chapter is pretty much just wedding smuts. Sorry; see you next time!
> 
> For everyone else: FINALLY. ;)

There were more than a few guests well into their cups before Bucky was willing to stop celebrating. He’d been so eager for it, the wedding-- and of course what came after the wedding. But now Tony was his, would be for the rest of their lives, and he found that he was unwilling to rush it. To move from this moment, where everything was surrounded by some sweet glow of candle light and a haze of wine seemed almost a waste. 

They would have many nights to be in each other’s company; there was no need to hasten through this until the next.

But finally, the party wound down. The Mrs. had gone off to bed some time ago; Bucky had just barely noticed them slipping away, giggling like schoolgirls.

Good for them.

It was a blessing to be able to be happy for someone else, instead of letting everyone else’s happiness poison him just a little. It was a wound, an infection, and Tony had lanced it with a single smile.

“I am going to bed,” Bucky said, yawning with more than a little bit of theatrics. “Care to join me?”

“Do you know, I believe I shall,” Tony said, playing along, only a hint of smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. “The ride north quite exhausted me.”

Bucky took Tony’s hand. “Grab that sack of wine, would you,” he told his husband as they passed one of the tables. The man there wasn’t going to be drinking it, he was asleep in a puddle of beer and someone had, much to Bucky’s amusement, perched a Yorkshire pudding on his hat. 

There were four bedrooms on the upstairs, and Bucky checked his key. “Here we are.”

Tony leaned against the wall next to the door, the wine cradled in his arms like a baby. “Are you going to carry me over the threshold?” he teased.

Bucky had won a championship pugilism match against a previously undefeated fighter, and done so with an artificial arm. Surely he was man enough to carry his spouse across the threshold without dropping him. Not that Tony wouldn’t surely forgive him if he was dropped. Deep breath, braced his shoulder to carry the load, and slipped his real arm under Tony’s knees. “Hold on, then,” he said, trusting Tony to keep himself mostly upright.

Tony laughed and tightened his hold around Bucky’s neck and shoulder, clinging to Bucky almost desperately. “You brute,” he gasped between peals of laughter. “I wasn’t _serious_.”

Bucky got a few steps into the room, and then set Tony down on his feet a little heavier than, perhaps, he would have liked to, but it got the job done. He kicked the door shut behind them. “I would give you anything in the world in my power to deliver,” he said, touching Tony’s face. “Don’t you know that?”

Tony’s levity melted away, leaving him staring at Bucky in soft awe. “You’ve already given me the one thing I’ve ever truly cared about,” he said. He leaned in, tipping his face up to kiss Bucky softly, slowly. “I love you.”

It wasn't like it was their first time; they'd become lovers not long after Bucky came home from boarding school after those long years of seeing each other only a few times a year, cherishing every minute they could get.

But it had been so long that Bucky was all but trembling like a green boy.

He unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat. Tony would have to help him get out of the bottom layer; the artificial arm was not always gentle on material, something Shuri had promised to fix at some later date.

Tony took the clothes from Bucky’s fingers and draped them carefully over a chair, then set to work on the shirt’s buttons, leaning close into Bucky’s space, nimble fingers making short work of the buttons while Tony watched Bucky’s face. He slipped it down over Bucky’s shoulders, carefully freeing it from the catches and notches of the arm, and added it to the pile.

He turned back to Bucky with an expression like reverence, reaching out to touch Bucky’s bare chest with light fingertips, tracing the twist of scars before dropping to circle a nipple, teasing.

Bucky inhaled, sharp and aching. "A long time," he said, "without your touch. Some half-man, not really alive but not at peace. A restless spirit." He nuzzled at Tony's throat, kissed his jaw. "Give me release, my love."

“Yes,” Tony breathed, a warm benediction against Bucky’s ear. His hands traced designs over Bucky’s skin, looping spirals that brushed over all of Bucky’s most sensitive spots as if by accident, work-rough fingers scraping over the tender skin of Bucky’s nipples, the bright, almost ticklish places along Bucky’s sides.

Bucky captured Tony's mouth with his, kissing desperate and thoroughly until they were both dizzy, panting for air. "Boots first," he said. "lest this become a comedy, and then I am going to take you to bed."

“Boots,” Tony agreed, his pupils blown wide in the dim light of the room. He swayed toward Bucky just a little, as if he were going to claim another kiss, but then instead folded gracefully to his knees and started to unlace Bucky’s boots.

That particular subservience, even when Tony had done it as the stable boy, to help Bucky out of his riding boots, had always stirred things in Bucky’s groin, made him ache and want. And now, even more beautiful. He put his hand on top of Tony’s head, fingers going in to tousle Tony’s hair.

Tony turned his face into Bucky’s touch before finishing the task, holding the boots steady so Bucky could pull his feet free. Finished, Tony knelt up, his hands resting on Bucky’s hips, and looked up at Bucky with a sweet, tender smile before pressing a kiss to Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky’s stomach quivered, his thighs clenched up. “Jesus,” he managed. “You are a beautiful disaster, and I am going to fall over in about half a moment.”

Tony laughed, breath spilling warm over Bucky’s skin. “Can’t have that.” He stood up and wound his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “Take me to bed, then.”

It was more like drag and fall than take, but they both got there, and that was really all that mattered. Bucky rolled over until he was nestled between Tony’s thighs, hovering over him, and then claimed a kiss, tongue sweeping into Tony’s mouth. Just like it used to be. Had he thought he could ever get over this? Ever get on with his life? The taste of Tony’s mouth was like a miracle, the feel of his breath against Bucky’s cheek, a benediction. 

“God, I’ve missed this so much,” Tony groaned, rolling his body against Bucky’s, tucking his face into the curve of Bucky’s throat to suck on the skin there. “I didn’t even know how much until I saw you again.”

“Every day,” Bucky swore. “Every day that I couldn’t have you, even thinking you’d forsaken me. Cursed myself for loving you still, but I always, always did. Always will.”

“And now we have each other, for always.” Tony brushed his knuckles down Bucky’s cheek. “I am yours, and you are mine. Love me, husband. Show me how you’ve missed me.”

Bucky had no more words, or if he tried to speak, he might actually weep in gratitude. Instead, he rolled off long enough to get out of his breeches and small clothes, helping Tony when Tony proved too interested in _looking_ to do any actual work. 

A deep breath, held in his chest until it burned, while Bucky looked over his husband. There were new scars, and a certain filling out of muscle, particularly in the arm, that Tony hadn’t had before.

“So beautiful,” Bucky said, and when Tony opened his mouth to respond, Bucky licked him, from throat all the way down, until he reached Tony’s groin, and then swallowed his cock with an eager moan.

Whatever Tony had been about to say shattered into a groan of sheer desire and need. His hands curled into Bucky’s hair and his hips shifted restlessly as he fought the urge to thrust into Bucky’s mouth. His legs spread wider, inviting Bucky into the cradle of them. “God,” he gasped.

Careful to keep the metal arm away from Tony’s tender skin, Bucky took that invitation. He settled, right arm tucked under Tony’s ass to hold him, mouth working. He couldn’t get enough of it, hard and heavy, skin velvet smooth. Tony tasted delicious, powerfully male, perfectly glorious. Bucky took him as deep as he could, trying to remember how to breathe around it, until they got a perfect rhythm going, until Tony was soaked and slippery and shaking with it.

“Sweetheart,” Tony panted after a time, “you have to stop or it’ll be over too soon. I want you, need you, darling...” He tugged lightly on Bucky’s hair to punctuate his words, dragging Bucky back up his body and licking into Bucky’s mouth hungrily.

“Yes, yes, I want that--” Bucky said. “Want you.” He gasped between kisses, succumbing for some time to the temptation of Tony’s mouth. Finally, he pulled back and hoped to every god in a dozen pantheons that someone had the presence of mind to stock the guest rooms for love; since that was their primary purpose.

Huzzah! He found what he was seeking in the bedside table’s drawer. “Lay back, darling,” Bucky told him. “I’ll have to go slow, I-- left handed, even now, much to the dismay of every tutor I ever had.”

Tony sprawled back into the pillows, spreading his arms like he was trying to soak up as much of Bucky’s presence as he could get. “I’m in no hurry, love. We’ve been apart too long not to want to cherish every second we have, now.”

Bucky used his teeth to remove the cork, spitting it to the side, and wet his fingers with oil. It was awkward, but he managed it. Good to know; there had been times when he’d wondered if he’d never be able to live some sort of normal life again.

He rubbed his slickened fingers over Tony’s opening, teasing at the puckered surface, watching Tony’s face intently. There was nothing in his life Bucky could ever imagine that was so beautiful as the way Tony’s features went still with pleasure, the way his mouth dropped open, the way he strained to hold himself still, and the way he couldn’t manage it anyway, hips pushing up to meet Bucky’s hand.

Despite the assertion that he was in no hurry, it wasn’t long before Tony was twisting and pleading for more, begging Bucky to touch him deeper, to fill him fuller. He was panting for breath, a light sheen of sweat painting his chest and shoulders and making him glow in the candlelight.

Bucky tugged his hand free. “I think-- I think it will be safer if you’re on top, husband. I don’t want to bruise you.” Or cut him, really. The arm was not made for these sorts of activities. A problem that Bucky had been entirely unaware of, until he had a naked, needy Tony back in his bed.

“Yes,” Tony agreed. For a brief moment, he looked at the arm and his eyes went distant, thinking and planning. Then he blinked, and he was back in the moment with Bucky, sitting up and nudging Bucky to roll over and lie down.

He straddled Bucky’s hips, bracing his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “Hold it steady for me, love.” Bucky had barely even grasped himself before Tony was lining up, wriggling a little and squirming down onto Bucky’s cock, groaning with each finger width deeper he sank.

Bucky arched up into it, helpless not to. Tony’s body was a delicious, heated clutch. Truly, the French were right. Little death-- He wasn’t certain, really, how he hadn’t died for this. How he was not, in fact, dying now. Perfect bliss, balanced on the knife’s edge between too much and not enough.

Tony hissed a little as he sank down. “It’s been a while,” he confessed. “You feel at least twice as big as I remember.” He grinned down at Bucky and eased himself down a little more. Pulled back and then dropped down again, farther this time. It was exquisite torture, but almost too soon when Tony bottomed out and Bucky was sunk as deep in Tony’s body as he could get.

“Pretty sure that much of me hasn’t changed,” Bucky teased, and he bounced his hips a few times, feeling Tony clench down to keep his balance. But Tony had mock-complained about it a few times, long ago. That Bucky was ridiculously well endowed. Bucky didn’t think so; Tony’s didn’t look all that terribly different. Bent in the other direction, but still.

Tony huffed at him, too fond to actually be exasperated, then leaned down to kiss Bucky again, and oh, that felt odd. A few moments later, Tony let out a sigh of relief. “There we go, now I think I can--” He pulled almost all the way off and then sank back down, steady and slow. He did it again, a little faster, and then set a rhythm, his thighs and hips rocking as he worked himself on Bucky’s cock, eyelids fluttering closed and his head thrown back in wanton pleasure.

Bucky tried to remember how to breathe. How to blink. All he could do, practically, was lay there and stare like some sort of landed fish. Seemed to make things a little easier for Tony, however, who was doing the lion’s share of the work. Bucky’s hand went to Tony’s hip, to help balance him, and also because Bucky couldn’t resist feeling that smooth, heated skin.

He kept the other tucked under his head -- it wasn’t the most comfortable spot, but would probably keep it out of Tony’s way. “That’s so good, honey,” Bucky said, watching as Tony moved, his cock bobbing stiffly between them.

“It is,” Tony agreed, somewhat breathless. “I’d almost forgotten...” He managed a sinuous roll of his hips that jerked a moan out of Tony’s throat and had Bucky seeing stars. “God, I love you.”

Tony had awakened something in Bucky, something dark and desperate that had lain, perhaps slumbering, unaware, until this moment. Bucky didn’t just want Tony, he needed him. Like air, like water, like sunlight. He was quite certain he would die without him. When Tony touched him, Bucky felt as if he was losing his mind, and didn’t even want it back.

Bucky stared up at him in wonder, and Tony looked down, practically looming. Some primitive beast moving in for the kill. Feral and triumphant, powerfully possessive, and Bucky let himself be possessed. Gave everything in him to this man.

He couldn’t have said, later, how long it was, as they rocked and moved together, perfectly synched. Bucky wanted it never to end, and he still ached for his release. 

It seemed to happen, then, all at once. Tony’s pace went from teasingly slow to hot and quick. His lips were on Bucky’s, devouring him as they writhed together. Breathing quicker, gasping for air, and Bucky shifted to get his hand between them, to help Tony find his own center. Wanting to be the one who gave it to him.

Tony let out a long whine when Bucky’s hand closed around his cock and his movements lost some of their smooth grace and rhythm, turned frantic and uneven. His breath came in gasps so desperate they verged on sobs, until finally he cried out, and warm wetness covered Bucky’s hand as he reached his peak.

“Tony-- Tony,” Bucky cried, “I… god--” Incoherent as it was incandescent, he threw back his head into the pillow, feeling the hardness of artificial fingers under him, a jolt of pain that scraped everything bright and fresh… and God, _powerful_. Everything in him moved toward that single, fixed point, and he gave himself up to it, an offering. _I am yours._

It might have been seconds later, or hours, when Tony slumped onto Bucky’s chest, panting for breath. “Very,” he said breathlessly, “extremely consummated.”

Bucky laughed lightly, patting Tony’s shoulder fondly. “Very.”


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky stared up at the manor house. "Family seat of the Barnes, the heart of the Earldom for six generations. Really not that long, you know." He gave Tony an expectant look.

Tony had never, in fact, been to Buchanan house. The Earl preferred his seat and house in town. 

Tony was still staring up at the house, tapping at his chest -- a nervous tic. “Right. Well.” He glanced at Bucky, then managed a smile. “Ready to go become the family black sheep?”

"There's far worse than me," Bucky said. "My great uncle Reginald was a horse thief. He eventually graduated to murderer, and was lynched…" Bucky turned, and then pointed. "Over there, by some very angry farmers."

“Well, it’s nice to know that if your father decides to kill me, I’ll be hanged in a place with some tradition to it,” Tony quipped. “I am a convicted horse thief, you know.”

"I am not going to let anyone hang you," Bucky said. "I want to do this right. Rumor maybe travels quick, but… he should hear it from me. From us. And if he's going to disown me in a fit, I'd rather get it over with. Also, satisfying as it is to burn a letter--"

He gave Tony a helpless little laugh. "Still terrifying, right?"

“A little,” Tony admitted. He reached out, grasping, and caught Bucky’s hand. “Together.”

"I mean," Bucky said, "it doesn't matter, does it? I've never really… the Earl's never been fond. I won't be losing anything except a couple of big houses. My sister will let me come home, if the Earl disinherits me in her favor. She's barely out of the nursery."

Tony squeezed Bucky’s hand a little tighter. “I expect it would still hurt,” he said softly, “to learn that your father valued the bloodline more than your happiness. But we’ll weather the storm, if we must.” His smile twisted a little with amusement. “You’ll make a wonderful kept man.”

Bucky returned the squeeze. "I don't even think it's occurred to him that people _are_ happy. There's duty. And honor. What more do you need?"

He appeared to gather his courage, and mounted the stairs, using his walking stick to rap against the door several times.

The butler took Bucky’s card, squinted at it as if he didn’t, in fact, recognize the Earl’s son, then led them to a small parlor on the shady side of the house. “At least someone’s not pretending not to be home,” Bucky murmured. 

The furniture was all that delicate, awkward stuff, with pale coverings and spindly looking legs that seemed designed to hold ladies.

Bucky all but threw himself on a sofa. “I wonder how long she’ll keep us waiting.”

Because, honestly, they both expected the Countess, rather than the Earl.

“Long enough to have a fainting spell, have a glass of sherry, and change her gloves,” Tony suggested. He sat next to Bucky, somewhat more cautiously. “If we’re lucky,” he murmured, “he’s off on a ride or something and won’t hear about it until we’re gone.”

They were, in fact, both surprised when, not ten minutes after their arrival, the Earl strode in. He had not taken the time to neaten his appearance or change clothes into something more appropriate. He was wearing his riding breeches and his vest was filthy, jacket missing entirely.

Bucky scrambled to his feet. “Sir,” he said, then took in the Earl’s appearance. “Is-- did we call at a bad time?”

Which seemed a little ridiculous, as obviously, Bucky announcing his hasty marriage to a stableboy was always going to be news delivered at a bad time, but Bucky was apparently flabbergasted.

“James,” The Earl said. Then he glanced at Tony. The eyes that seemed so cheerful, the blue of the sky, were the same, and yet, the earl’s gaze was glacial. Chilly and formal, even given his unorthodox appearance. “Mr. Stark.”

“Father,” Bucky said, and the Earl’s attention snapped off Tony to stare at Bucky instead. “Father, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Anthony Barnes. My husband.”

The Earl seemed to swell with indignation. “After all I did to protect you?”

“Apparently so,” Bucky said. “What would that be, exactly? Lying to the constable and having Tony transported? Or would that be the part where you lied to my face about it? You won’t get what you want, Father, and it’s only by grace of God that Tony’s not dead, and my heart with it. Would that have pleased you?”

The Earl snorted. “You’d have gotten over it,” he rumbled. “Commoner trash, not worth wasting your time on. But you’ve always been selfish and short-sighted. Taking your bedwarmer to the altar, making a laughingstock of us, sullying our name.”

“I wasn’t-- getting over it,” Bucky snapped. “I was never going to get over it. But if that’s less important than your good name, I suspect the courts will allow me to surrender it.”

“James Stark has a nice sound to it,” Tony observed. He was proud of the fact that his voice was steady and a little cool when what he wanted was to leap across the room and shake the man into sense. “We don’t have to stay here and be insulted like this.”

“You’ve never loved anything, have you? Otherwise you would understand, but all you’ve ever cared about was the title, and some lands. I could hold those just as well as you, _and_ be happy. Duty doesn’t have to be cold and loveless. The farmers, the tennents-- they won’t care. They’ll be provided for. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be? Good landlords?”

“They’d walk all over you,” the Earl snapped. “The landlord who married his _stableboy?_ They’d see you for the weakling that you are and take every advantage.”

“I suppose we’ll never know,” Bucky said. “I’m off then, to the Americas, once my husband’s business is finished in London. Should you wish my direction at some point, a letter to Stark Industries would see it delivered.”

“That’s it, then?” the Earl demanded. “Just like that, you’re throwing away all your training, all the effort I’ve put into teaching you how to hold the post? All the money I’ve spent on you?”

“Oh, have no fear on that score,” Tony said. “I’ve more than money enough to keep us both quite comfortable.”

“I could still hold the post, if you’d let me,” Bucky said. “It doesn’t have to be like that. I’ve no objection to the earldom. And look, Tony’s no mere stableboy anymore. He went to the Americas, he made something of himself, from the very ground up. Perfect picture of a gentleman. I don’t believe anyone would look down on me for such a husband. Not anyone who _mattered_.”

There was just the slightest bit of edge to that. A blade, inserted and ready to strike.

“It’s true that I could run Stark Industries as well from London as from New York,” Tony said, affecting nonchalance. “It’s an international business, now. I could turn the New York branch over to the keeping of my second-in-command and remain here to oversee operations in the Isles and on the Continent.”

“He wouldn’t -- Tony wouldn’t bring shame on the Earldom, Father,” Bucky said, and it obviously pained him to be pleading with the man. “He’s prosperous; the days of the land baron are ending; we need industry to stay wealthy and strong. He’s fresh blood, and a new chance. You’d be a fool to turn us away. Tony has… you might say, a really good dowry.”

“I don’t expect there’ll ever be any love lost between us,” Tony added, a touch drily, “but you always had a good head for business. You sponsored innovations that the other lords would have scoffed at. I remember that, from when I was a boy. This is just one more. Don’t let your personal feelings get in the way of what’s best for the earldom. We need not cross paths often.” It galled to try to appease the Earl like this, but for Bucky’s sake, Tony would do much more. And he’d never really gotten comfortable in New York; relocating to London wouldn’t be difficult at all.

“At least come to London and look at what he’s accomplished,” Bucky said. “You don’t have to decide now, but once you cast me out, you can’t take it back. And I _won’t_ come back.”

The Earl glowered at them for a long moment more. “Your mother would be distraught,” he finally said gruffly. “For her sake, I’ll give it a look.”

Tony was hard pressed not to scoff. Couldn’t possibly admit he might have been wrong; had to hang the excuse on his wife. Well, whatever. If it made Bucky happy, then so be it.

Bucky managed a stiff bow. “Thank you, sir. We’ll make time for you as soon as you’re back in London.”

Tony nodded. “I’ll arrange a tour of one of the factories.”

And with that, they were going to have to be satisfied. The Earl didn’t even take his leave of them before turning on his heel and stalking back out of the parlor. Never offered tea, or ordered a room made up for them.

“We might want to look into letting a house,” Bucky said, as they made their way back to the carriage. “The hotel’s nice enough, but--” He gazed out at the lawn, where the Earl could be seen, ahorse already and galloping away. “He’ll come around.” And it wasn’t clear who, exactly, he was trying to convince.

“I like the idea of setting up house with you,” Tony said, tucking his arm through Bucky’s. “It will all work out.”

Bucky smiled at him, his whole heart in his face. “With you, it feels like anything is possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading! And thank you especially to feignedsobriquet, who let us abscond with her art and doodle a story all over it!
> 
> Next week, we will continue our "historical" trend (seriously, we just can't get enough of historical AUs, they're like popcorn!) by kicking off _Aria in B♭_ about nobleman Tony and opera singer Bucky. Stick around for the fun!


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